


The Edges Pushed: Stories of Conspiracy and Valor

by Peapods



Category: Pundit RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the Colombian jungle, Anderson Cooper is going to become embroiled in something greater than a drug war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Edges Pushed: Stories of Conspiracy and Valor

  
** Chapter One**   


"Jeez, I thought Brazil was hot," Anderson said to Charlie as they walked through the small village they had found themselves in for the past few days. To the south they could hear the trickle of the Rio Inirida, in the jungle around them the squawk of too many bird species to count.

"Geographically, not a lot of difference between Colombia and Brazil, Andy," Charlie said, swatting at a fly. "When do you want to leave?"

"Not for another day."

They had arrived in Colombia the week before and had been putting together pieces about the drug wars going on all around the country. Several contacts, numerous bribes, and some 'help' editing the coverage had let them see parts of the country that no one saw without being kidnapped. Anderson had promised to show a very even-handed view of the situation, including the opinion that the United States needed to handle its own drug problem and stop relying so much on the fruitless military aid.

This village was the perfect example of the struggle in Colombia. Despite an embarrassment of riches in coca plants, the people were desperately poor, making only a tiny fraction compared to the refiners and dealers of the coca and cocaine. FARC gave them protection from the U.S.-backed military. The government gave them nothing. Despite attempts in other countries like Peru to get growers to grow fruit instead of coca, there was simply no money in that kind of transition. That is even less money than there was in growing coca. They had broadcasted from the village the night before, getting a few minutes live with New York before their equipment crapped out. They had spent the rest of their time shooting longer stories.

"Didn't you get all the footage you need? What, you wanna add some sweep shots?" Charlie asked as they sat on a couple of tree stumps.

"No, I've got a few more things I want to shoot," Anderson said quietly. He sat for a moment before bringing up a thought that had been bothering him for awhile now. "They're not gonna keep letting me do this, are they?"

Charlie looked at him, confused.

"This traveling thing. Going to stories. I mean, I keep threatening them, but they keep finding ways to keep me there. Keep me covering stories like the stupid flag-pin story and--" he shook his head. "Planet in Peril was the only thing they let me out on. I've been trying to get back to Afghanistan and they keep cutting me off; I keep trying to go back to Congo, but they don't seem to care."

"Anderson?" Charlie asked, and he sounded concerned now. "I don't suppose this stuff's a deal breaker for you?"

Anderson thinned his lips and breathed out hard through his nose. "Charlie, honest to God, I don't see much difference between me and whoever else they put in that chair. My point, my _thing_ was going to stories. Was bringing back the story that no one cared about because they didn't _know_ anything about it until I said "look at this, how can you see this and not care?" And now I feel like, I mean I _know_ the election is important, but I don't think people suddenly stop caring about the world around them just because an election is going on."

He stood and kicked at the detritus in the street. He watched a few children play with a mangy-looking puppy and squeezed his eyes shut against the headache that fought to take over rational thought.

"I'll work my contract," he finally said. "But unless things change... damnit, Charlie, the sort of shit I cover now was why I ran to reality television."

Charlie didn't answer, only looked as hang-dog as Anderson had ever seen him. He rubbed his face and nodded, rising to join Anderson.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Anderson contemplated his future, contemplated running, moving, once again.

*****

The three nights in the village had been spent outside a small cafe. Music played lightly and several couples danced. Times may have been hard, but there was still some happiness to be found. They sipped from short glasses filled with chicha and spooned thick servings of cuchuco into their mouths. Charlie had already devoured his plus a couple of Anderson's power bars so he could continue to drink the chicha. Anderson had learned to limit himself to one glass or to face a monstrous hangover. But on their last night, Charlie managed to talk him into two more.

"How're you and Olbermann?" Charlie asked.

"We're fine," Anderson said, shortly. It was a non-discussion at CNN, his sexuality. It hadn't bothered him for ages because he hadn't had a long-term boyfriend. But Keith had been with him for nearly two years, and there was a quiet resistance to Anderson saying anything about it. To anyone. If Anderson was going to be prevented from going to the places where people _would_ care about his sexuality, then why keep hiding?

"He treat you right?" Anderson leveled a questioning glare at his producer.

"So, what, I'm a seventeen-year-old girl, now?"

Charlie raised his hands in surrender and they turned back to the music. But Anderson's mind was already fixed on Keith and their last time together.

*

_"You have some kind of death wish?" Keith asked as they lay in bed._

_"Keith," Anderson started, turning to face his partner. "I don't get to travel much anymore. There are little things--I'm really thinking my traveling is going to be seriously curtailed. I just-I just want to be able to do what I love and--" His rambling was cut off by Keith lips. He responded eagerly, following Keith as he pulled him to his chest. He crossed his arms over Keith's chest and lay his chin on his hands._

_"You better _pray_ nothing happens to you," Keith growled, hands kneading Anderson's ass._

_"I will be very careful, Keith," Anderson whispered._

_"Now get off me, you're fucking heavy," Keith said._

*

As they sat silently, the day's conversation lingering over them like the mosquitos, Anderson's Blackberry beeped and he frowned at the email that popped up in his inbox from an address he wasn't familiar with. He opened it, but the words swam on the screen and he was only able to make out 'Bush' and 'project'. He saved it to the phone and clicked the machine off. It was a wonder there was service out here at all.

They retired with the village and Anderson didn't even bother crawling into his sleeping bag or getting undressed. He had learned from Jeff to wear khakis and had even gone so far as to wear shorts when taping only above the waist. The darkness, cut with the sounds of foreign animals, swam before his eyes and he wished desperately for a glass of water and a couple aspirin. But he was too drunk to even manage that.

When he woke again, unaware that he had even fallen asleep, it was still dark, he was less drunk, but the noise around him had changed. The forest had gone quiet and there was no creaking of hammock or bed. It was as if the entire village was holding its breath.

He rose and stretched, taking a deep breath to dispel the nausea the chicha had caused. His face was hot and felt swollen. He grabbed a bottle of water and gulped a few sips down. At the window, he allowed the slight breeze to cool his face. The village was still, nearly dark but for some ambient light from the moon.

He was startled, his heart leaping into his throat, by a sharp whizzing sound past his ear and a percussive _thunk_ in the wall behind him. He turned to see a hole, the size of a bullet, smoking in the wall. Eyes wide he looked out the window and saw the trees move. He took a sharp breath and ducked, moving quickly across the floor to Charlie. Adrenaline dissipated his hangover, too focused on not dying to worry about his stomach trying to turn itself inside out. His hands shook and his back was stiff with tension.

"Charlie," he whispered, shaking his producer to wakefulness, who gaped at him balefully.

"What the hell, Anderson?"

"Soldiers, surrounding the hotel, I got _shot_ at, we gotta move," Anderson said, leaving the camera and stuffing his tapes in their sealed containers into his backpack.

"Andy, that's crazy! Why would--"

"Charlie, I don't have time to argue with you about this, we have GOT to go," he said, throwing Charlie his backpack. Thankfully, Charlie stopped questioning him and packed his essentials -- food, water, and a compass.

They stopped moving and couldn't hear much. Anderson eased open the door and peered out. No movement from either direction in the hallway. Walking carefully on the outside of his boots he crossed the hall and tried the door to the other room. It opened noiselessly and a quick once-over determined the lack of residents. He gestured for Charlie to move, the latter closing the door behind him. They started to hear the creak of the stairs as the soldiers moved. Anderson's heart pounded so hard he thought he might get lightheaded from it, but adrenaline kept him moving. Charlie was already stripping one of the beds. From this side of the hotel the moon streamed right in the window and would create huge shadows underneath the doors. Charlie stuffed the sheet under the door and made his way to Anderson.

Anderson had tied the remaining sheet to the largely unnecessary radiator by the window and was carefully examining the outside, searching for signs of more soldiers. But despite training from the US, all the soldiers had moved to the hotel leaving openings all around the village for them to get out. He dropped the sheet out the window and gestured for Charlie to go first. As the other man began lowering himself, Anderson heard the sounds of doors being forced open.

"_Claro!_"

"_Claro!"_" came the voices, and Charlie dropped without going much further. Anderson swung himself out and down, jumping as Charlie had done, when he was sure he could land easily. It was hard to tell what was happening then; they made for the forest, dense and wet, broad green leaves catching the moon and the washed out blankness of Anderson's hair. They didn't stop, only continued into the forest until they could no longer see the few lights from the village or hear the shouting of the soldiers as they realized their target was gone.

"What the fuck?" Charlie asked breathlessly as they stopped in a clearing. "_What the fuck?_"

"I don't know!" Anderson exclaimed. He pulled out the rechargeable flashlight and quickly spun the gear to turn it on. They were bathed in the soft glow. "I mean, were they just pissed at us talking to FARC or what? I mean, how would they even know? We didn't mention any of that in our broadcasts."

"Shit," Charlie said quietly. "Well, now we're in a jungle we're entirely unfamiliar with, we've got trained soldiers on our tail who are apparently trying to _kill_ you, and," he fumbled for his phone, but the bars didn't so much as flicker, "there's no way to contact Marianne or the office."

"This is weird shit, Charlie," Anderson said. "Not to mention a little frightening."

"You knew the risks coming here, Andy," Charlie chided. They had all known the risks; they had deemed the story worth those risks. People were fighting and dying and being kidnapped. The United States was funneling money into an ineffective military and more and more of the population was becoming sympathetic to FARC, which protected them, gave them jobs. Moreover, no one in America seemed to care.

"I knew we could be kidnapped by FARC and ransomed to the government, not vice versa or, damnit, _assassinated_," Anderson said, scratching his head with frustration.

"Try your phone," Charlie said, kicking at a plant.

Anderson nodded and pulled out his Blackberry, but like Charlie's it was completely without service.

"Can we sneak back to the village when they're gone?" Charlie asked.

"And how would we know when they're gone?" Anderson asked, reasonably. "Even if we could, we could be stop--" he cut himself off as he heard a rustling in the bush that had nothing to do with a wild animal. He grabbed Charlie's arm and began running again. Leaves slapped him in the face, and Charlie's panting breath was probably not helping with the chase, but Anderson didn't feel they had any choice.

They stopped incrementally, changing directions, doubling back until they were certain they'd lost their pursuers.

"Shit, shit," Charlie said, clutching a stitch in his side.

"They haven't tried talking," Anderson said, breathlessly, "they just keep coming."

He leaned against a tree and tried to catch his breath, closing his eyes against the dark of the jungle and the fear that wouldn't quite leave him alone. He'd been in the company of rebels, scary-as-fuck foreign leaders, even murderers and he'd been able to turn what little fear he felt into adrenaline. Now, the adrenaline was melting back into fear.

"Why would they be after us?" Charlie asked. "Who did we talk to? Carlos, the guy in Bogota."

"Manuel in San Jose del Guaviare," Anderson listed.

"And Lujuana in Puerto Inirida," Charlie finished. "All of them natives, all tied to FARC."

"Not Manuel," Anderson shook his head. "He's working both sides."

"You could tell?" Charlie looked impressed.

"He was very careful with his information, framing everything in terms like 'word on the street' and 'rumor has it.' He's making money playing both sides, he gave us the information we wanted," Anderson explained. The conversation calmed him and he managed to start thinking rationally about their situation. "We should rest."

"We're supposed to sleep after all that?" Around them, the jungle was alive with the sounds of monkeys, the rustling of large rodents, the slithering of things Anderson didn't want to much think about.

"Tell me you're not exhausted," Anderson said. Charlie stood still for a moment and then slumped.

"Fuck, I'm tired, but I'd seriously like _not_ to be shot in the head while sleeping."

"I'll take first watch."

*****

Anderson felt like he'd only slept a few minutes after he'd had Charlie relieve him when the other man was shaking him awake. Dawn was creeping into the trees, the forest misty around them.

"I might be imagining it, but I think I heard them," Charlie whispered. Anderson was up in second, strapping on his backpack. A few moments still and silent indicated that Charlie hadn't been wrong.

"We gotta get to the river," Anderson whispered. "We can follow the Guaviare back to Puerto Inirida or San Jose de Guaviare--"

"You expect us to walk 500 miles?!"

"We need to know what direction we're going, Charlie. We can go east or west once we find the river."

"Since when are you Michael Douglas?"

"I don't understand the reference," Anderson said as they started moving.

"'Romancing the Stone', chick flick, I guess," Charlie said. "Well, fuck it if I'm going to be Kathleen Turner in this scenario."

"I'm not even going to expend the mental energy necessary to _ask_ what you're talking about," Anderson whispered harshly.

They hiked through the day, only stopping for small minutes of rest, drinking what little water they had, taking small bites of power bars. The army guys didn't move as quickly as marines and definitely weren't as trained, but they were persistent. They hadn't been moving due north. Anderson had been angling them subtly towards Puerto Inirida knowing that was their nearest hope for help.

They stopped to sleep. Only the usual sounds of the jungle surrounded them and they found a downed tree to curl up near, giving them some cover.

They lay awake a few moments. Anderson listened closely to the surroundings but could hear nothing beyond the howls of monkeys and the flapping of bat wings. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of all the wild things that could fly into his face in this jungle. He tried to close his eyes but Charlie shifted restlessly next to him.

"Something bothering you, Charlie?"

"Uh, no, Anderson, what could possibly be bothering me when men are trying to kill us and we're traipsing through the jungle with only your word on knowing how to get us out of this mess?"

"You doubt me?"

"Anderson," Charlie said, propping himself up on an elbow. "You talked about those survival courses, you talked about wanting to know how to live in the world, but I just... shit, Anderson, you're laying here completely calm, like this is just..."

Anderson propped himself on his own elbows, face close to Charlie's.

"Charlie, I'm no less freaked out than you are, but, well, yes I prepared for this. Maybe not for being shot at _specifically_, but I had too many close calls with sniper fire. I've interviewed armed men--"

"I know, I know," Charlie said, waving all this away. "I guess I'm just trying to say I didn't really believe it 'til now, didn't really get it."

"And now you do?"

Charlie half-smiled and rolled his eyes. "I'm getting the idea." They lay back then. Sleep came easier and Anderson dropped off moments later.

They awoke a few hours later to continue their trek. As Anderson stood a smattering of gunfire alerted him to the soldiers' presence.

"Shit," he cried, hitting the ground. His arm had been nicked by a bullet, but not enough to cause any real damage. But fuck if it didn't burn like hell.

_So much for the ineffective military._ The government forces were proving to be highly effective in tracking them down. Now, their aim was improving.

"Fuck, Anderson," Charlie said, immediately pulling off his bandanna and wrapping it around the wound. It stopped bleeding almost immediately. Anderson flexed his arm, hissing at the slight pull, but the pain was tolerable.

"Yeah, I'm thinking the whole running away part was the smartest thing we could have done," Anderson said. "We gotta move." He stared at Charlie. "All right, we run, to the right, we need to go north anyway. You have to be quick, Charlie."

"Don't worry about me, I've no particular desire to die here," Charlie said. Anderson counted down with his fingers and they both sprung from their crouches into a full-out run. Anderson didn't stop to look behind him, to see if Charlie followed, but he figured the crashing and cursing indicated his presence as well as anything. Gunshots penetrated the air, but only a few even came near them in the denseness of the jungle. The soldiers were slow to react beyond shooting and Anderson and Charlie were able to put several hundred yards between them. They dodged and weaved, leaving a zig-zagging pattern, even splitting up for part of the time to create two trails, meeting up again with smiles of relief. Under the jungle sounds they couldn't hear the soldiers any longer, but they didn't take any chances and, after a short rest, began running again. Thankfully, the jungle hadn't been dense enough yet to require a machete so their pace was quick. But soon, night fell again and they had to stop. As the rain started they tried to find shelter under a thicket. It helped keep most of the warm moisture off of them.

"This is getting too serious," Charlie said with a shake of his head. "They're shooting at us, they've made no attempt to talk to us. What the hell?"

A very bad thought occurred to Anderson and he pulled out his Blackberry, thanking Keith for insisting he invest in the Golden Shellback polymer that made his device waterproof. Their last night in the village was fuzzy, but he recalled an email from an address he hadn't recognized.

"What, you trying to call someone? We're in the _jungle_, Anderson," Charlie told him, gesturing at the foliage around them.

"No, not trying to call anyone. We've been wondering why we're being hunted down and I might have an answer," he opened his saved mail and opened the email he'd received two nights ago. As he read, everything became clear and his breathing quickened, full of fear and anger. "Fuck," he breathed.

"What?"

"You've gotta run, Charlie," he said.

"What? Without you? Fuck that, Anderson, I'm not leaving you in the jungle alone." Anderson rounded on Charlie, desperate.

"They're after me, not you, I'm the one with the email."

"And what's to stop them from believing _I'm _ the one?" Charlie asked reasonably. "Besides, how could they know what's in your email?"

"I don't know, but we've gotta split up." Charlie was shaking his head. "We've _got_ to. With us split up that will halve the number of soldiers chasing each of us. Not only do we stand a better chance, but once they see you don't know anything --" Charlie then tried to grab the Blackberry out of Anderson's hand. "Damnit, Charlie," Anderson said snatching his hand away. "No. Even without the email, this is sound."

"It's crazy, Anderson, we're better off sticking together."

"Not with a unit of soldiers on our asses! You know I'm right, Charlie. You go to Puerto Inirida, I'll keep to the river, head towards San Jose. Get ahold of Marianne and get your ass back to Bogota. I can meet you there."

"This is _crazy_," Charlie said softly.

"Yes, it is, but it's what we've got," Anderson said.

*****

Dawn came early, but the rain continued. Anderson left Charlie to sleep and gathered the supplies he'd need before setting off. He needed to reach the river then double back into the jungle to follow it. Being right on its banks would be the most obvious thing in the world. He took a deep breath, praying that Charlie wouldn't be hurt, hoping that it really was him that the soldiers were after. As he walked, ears alert for any changes, he thought about the email.

The son of a bitch had known, had known and misled everyone. Thousands dead, hundreds of thousands dead, because of that man's greed and hatred. Had he really thought it would never get out? Or perhaps he thought he'd be dead before that happened, dead and forgotten to all but the history books. The real question, the more troubling question, was how they had known that Anderson had received this information. He supposed it was possible that whoever had sent him the information had been discovered. That actually was the most likely scenario. This information would be the sort that could get someone in serious trouble. He only hoped that trouble wasn't similar to the kind he'd found himself in.

He laughed to himself as he thought about what Keith would say when Anderson told him what had happened. The man was absolutely convinced that Anderson was just waiting for an adventure right out of the "Bourne" series. Anderson didn't have the heart to tell him that his life wasn't nearly that exciting, and besides, he didn't even know _how_ to hot wire a car, not that he hadn't tried to learn.

He came upon a ridge, suddenly emerging from the shaded canopy--he hadn't even realized that he had been slowly advancing on an incline--and swallowed as his fear of heights hit him like vertigo. The drop off wasn't sheer, but steep enough to give him pause and make him skirt what little flat expanse there was carefully. Branches above him rustled ominously and he unconsciously began to move more quickly, his boots displacing dirt, rocks, and shallow rooted plants. The sky was blushed with gray clouds covering the sun that had been beating down through the forest. The rain started quickly and pinged hard on his skin. But the relative coolness was welcome in the oppressive heat as mid-day approached.

He thought of Keith again. He knew his boyfriend and many others simply thought of him as an amateur adventurist, swinging from vines and engaging in high speed car chases over rickety bridges and icy terrain. The truth was that sometimes Anderson thought the same thing, because as much as he'd like to believe otherwise, people were more interested in the movements of twenty-something party queens than the plight of indigenous farmers in the jungles of Colombia and the Andean Highlands of Peru. So why did he keep trying? Why did he keep insisting on going to these places? The easy, PR-ready answer was that he was being a responsible journalist, bringing light to parts of the world that seldom saw it. The real answer was that filming these stories, showing people these worlds validated his need to know them. Keith would say, "you're stup--"

Anderson's thought was cut off by the sudden lack of ground underneath his feet. He yelped in surprise, hands flying up unconsciously to find something to grab on to, but it was useless as he was pulled down with the rushing mud. He grunted, limbs flailing, jabbing into rocks, and he was fairly certain his shorts were filled with mud. It felt like he fell for hours. But suddenly he came to a wet rest, a small pond, and he sat, chest heaving in the muddy water.

He didn't even spare a thought for his entire lack of luck. _At least it's not the fucking Arctic_. He did not remember the shigloo with fondness.

He wiped his face and stood, noting the brown deluge that dropped from his shorts. He squeezed his eyes shut and just shook his head, wiping mud off his arms and shaking out his shirt. He pulled out his Blackberry and resolved to send the company a hefty check. It still worked. Well, except for the reception thing.

He slipped it back into his pocket, taking care to button the pocket closed, and took stock of his situation. He had fallen... to the north so he was closer now to the river. This was both a good and a bad thing. Closer to the river was dangerous, but it also was his 'yellow brick road', so to speak. The rain was letting up a little and Anderson could hear rapids to his right, like hearing the plumbing run in a large house. He slogged through the small pond coming up on slightly dryer land. His boots were full of mud and he quickly emptied them, scooping out plant life and small rocks with a grimace. He wrung out his socks, pulling them back on with some difficulty. He jammed his feet back into his boots and hefted his back pack that he'd somehow managed to hold on to. He could only hope that the containers around his tapes were as "waterproof" as the company claimed.

Anderson started toward the river, as much to clean off as to ascertain his general whereabouts. Even as mud began to dry in very uncomfortable places he thought of the _last_ time he'd been so dirty, a smile rising to his lips.

*

_"My shoes are _wrecked_," Keith said as he slid once again._

_Anderson giggled. "It rained this morning, mud will happen in such conditions."_

_"Why are we here, again?" Keith groused for the hundredth time. He shrugged his shoulders, pulling the backpack higher on his shoulders. Anderson smiled and wrapped a hand around Keith's arm, as much to keep him from slipping as to have the contact._

_"If you'll recall, I suggested several other different places including, but not limited to, Peru, London, and California. You only agreed to Tennessee because I promised to take you to a UT football game," Anderson told him. "I know you have some strange aversion to leaving the country, but really, Keith, you can't even enjoy a nice hike in the mountains of your own country?"_

_They made another turn in the trail and finally came face to face with the falls they had hiked down to see. They stopped speaking and took in the lush scene. Others around them were having picnics and swimming in the pool. Anderson, intent on the scene that seemed to glow blue and green, didn't notice the mischievous look on Keith's face. Moments later he was swept up into Keith's arms._

_"Keith! Keith! What are you _doing_?" He shrieked even as he was dropped on his butt into the biggest pile of mud in the free world._

_"I mean, you said it, Anderson -- mud will happen in these conditions."_

*

The river flowed away from the direction he was headed. It was the brownish color of most rivers, not too wide at the section he'd come to. He couldn't easily wade the distance to the other side, but he could probably communicate with someone with no trouble. The rapids weren't too violent, but the rush of them was powerful enough to blast the lingering mud from Anderson's arms. It wasn't the cleanest water and he despaired of trying to clean his bullet wound, but he knew he had no choice. He needed what little was left of his bottled water and what he'd managed to collect in rainwater for drinking. He unwrapped Charlie's handkerchief from his arm with a wince, gritting his teeth as the fabric pulled at the ragged edges of the wound. He could see plenty of foreign matter--dirt--in the wound. He washed out the bandanna, the blood disappearing into the brownish water. But lifting the water into his hands, it appeared more clear than it did against the muddy river bottom. He wiped at the wound, sucking in a sharp breath as he tried to finish quickly. The wound began to bleed again, running bright red down his arm.

_All without even a little alcoholic help. Bond would be proud._

He wrung out the handkerchief and wrapped it as best he could around the wound. He pulled it tight with his teeth, grunting as the wound was compressed. He rolled his neck and reached for his backpack. Inside, his pile of power bars and water bottles, though a little muddy, were untainted. He pulled out the tapes with a frown. They were designed to withstand the weather; they'd be a piss poor product for a reporter if they weren't. So far he couldn't see any cracks. He wiped them off with his shirt and opened them. They appeared, if not pristine, then at least salvageable.

"_Veo él hombre_!" came a voice, causing Anderson to twist on his toes. He could see the green uniforms of the soldiers through the thicket and jumped into action, throwing the tape back into his bag and zipping it up.

"_Cerca del río!_," another voice called. He was being surrounded on all sides, from what he could see, and he couldn't proceed in the direction he'd planned to go. He closed his eyes; there was really only one option.

_This would be a great advertisement. 'Our tapes can withstand even the rushing rapids of this river. Watch our intrepid reporter as he crosses with only a container and a backpack between the water and his precious tapes'_, he thought as he took the first step into the rushing river. It wasn't as cold as it had felt when he'd only been using little bits of it. He moved as quickly as he could, adrenaline making his head pound with its sudden recurrence.

There was gunfire, slower fire, meaning that this was a different platoon of soldiers. Or perhaps the others had simply run out of bullets for those nice machine guns. Only a few feet across and he was already chest deep--he felt his footing become precarious in the ever-shifting mud underneath him and tried to dig in his heels. A look back indicated that the soldiers were coming to the banks, reloading pistols and rifles.

_Why do I feel like Harrison Ford at the beginning of **Raiders**?_ He looked up hopefully, but no puddlejumper made itself known. Around him the water began to ripple sharply as more bullets came nearer their mark. Anderson could do nothing else but duck. Under the water, he opened his eyes and could barely see anything. The sediment the flowing water carried stung his eyes and made the aquatic world murky. He kept moving forward, hearing the percussive beats of bullets hitting the water, feeling the scales of fish large and small as they brushed his bare limbs.

It was hard staying beneath the water, the rapids doing their best to push him from his goal. His lungs began to ache from holding his breath and he let out tiny bubbles, trying to reduce the strain. He couldn't be sure how far he'd made it. He felt like he'd made it a few more feet since going under. The rocks were precarious but gave him things to hold on to, to drag himself forward. When he couldn't take it any longer, felt his vision darkening, he carefully lifted his head to the surface. His reappearance triggered another hail of bullets.

A quick look indicated that he was close to the other side. A tall thicket would conceal him enough to crawl to the woods. He ducked under again and moved more quickly, bullets pinging around him but none finding their mark. Finally, it became impossible to stay underwater as the river became shallow at the edge. He burst from the water and climbed the bank, dragging his water-logged backpack behind him. Bullets, fewer now, but no less dangerous. His boot slipped and he almost landed on his face, getting one arm under him to stop his fall. He propelled himself forward, ready to crawl.

Fire ripped through his calf. He shouted and collapsed, hand scrambling for the gunshot wound. It was bleeding heavily and Anderson threw up as waves of pain hit him. He felt himself trying to black out, his vision becoming blurry and a dull buzz clogging his ears, but he couldn't -- they were too close. He got to his knees, supporting himself on his elbows. He crawled forward, crying out at the pain in his calf as his muscle involuntarily flexed.

_Have to go, have to go. Don't stop, don't stop._ Over the roaring in his ears he could hear splashes as the men made it to the water. He panted through his pain, sounding more like he was whimpering than anything. His fingers clawed through the soil and he groped his way forward. He gritted his teeth and looked behind him, noting that the soldiers were having a difficult time crossing the river. Taking advantage of their preoccupation with not falling he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rose up. He braced himself on his good leg and levered himself up. White-hot agony shot up his leg and he bit his tongue, keeping in a scream. Blood flooded his mouth, but he swallowed it and stumbled forward.

It was excruciating, but there was no other choice, nothing else he could do. He would not give in. He limped, dragging his injured leg, using it when he needed to, grimacing through the pain and head dizzying at the feeling of blood pooling in his recently cleaned sock. The terrain was rough, but had no incline or decline. He used the thin trees and the few hanging vines as his makeshift crutches. His vision was swimming, making the world into a glowing green morass of pain and adrenaline.

In his pained state he hardly noticed when the sounds of the soldiers drifted away. He only ran and ran, agony making his vision darken and his stomach roll with nausea. He almost missed the shigloo in this state. He stumbled to a stop, dropped to his ass. His calf was a mass of mutilated flesh and his leg, sock, and boot were dyed red. He blew his breath out of his nose, huffing like a racehorse to calm his heart and stem the pain.

"Shit, shit, shit," he said, voice cracking with exhaustion. He picked up a stick, gritting his teeth with determination, and bit down on it. He pulled the handkerchief off his arm wound, causing it to begin bleeding again, and tied it tightly around the new wound. His scream was reduced to a hoarse sound and the world went dark.

He came to slowly, light bleeding in blearily from the edges of his vision. He managed to sit up, mouth going dry at the pain. He picked a leaf and wiped at the blood on his leg, trying to figure out if he was still bleeding. The handkerchief was already soaked through but there was little else he could do. Using a nearby tree he got to his feet, biting his lip as the muscle that had been ripped through by the bullet flexed. He looked up into the sky and checked his watch.

_I'm kind of impressed with myself, managing to keep to the general direction while being followed by bullets, shot in the leg, and generally afraid for my life. Okay, think think think where am I going, how far am I, where are the soldiers?_

He stumbled off in the general direction of "west", going slowly, stumbling often. The pain was beginning to recede. Or perhaps it had gotten so bad that he'd broken some kind of pain barrier. Straight into numbness. He was familiar with that state. He mopped his head, flinging sweat off his fingers. He had only gone maybe a few hundred yards when he hit a road.

And he used the term charitably.

The dirt road in front of him--more accurately a mud road--reminded him immediately of the poacher roads they'd followed in Brazil. The tracks in the mud weren't fresh, but weren't exactly old either, which wasn't actually a relief. That made it more likely that the road wasn't used semi-regularly and would likely be used soon. It was likely this road was actually used for drugs, rather than poaching. It would be the height of stupidity to remain here, to follow the road. His leg was blazing, and he took a deep breath, trying to get through the pain, but he knew the bullet had hit something important.

He crossed the road and headed back into the jungle, turning left. He knew the soldiers couldn't be too far behind especially with him so handicapped. He kept most of his weight on his right leg, but he was becoming tired, weak. He felt as though the mudslide had been days ago instead of the maybe hour or two that had passed. He needed to rest. He needed to sit down. Just for a little while. Just for a few minutes.

He sat with a huff, and stretched out his left leg. He dearly wanted to flex his toes, but knew that way lay agony.

_All this for a _fucking_ email?_

His head hit the trunk of the tree with what sounded like it should be painful "thunk." He didn't remember closing his eyes. One moment it was light, the next dark. White, amorphous shapes swam in front of him resolving into a fast moving tunnel. He followed.

He drifted.

*

_The studio was warm. Warmer than usual. He moved slowly, not feeling the people that rushed past him. His feet stuck to the floor, leaving sticky imprints in his wake._

_"You'll be late, you know," Erica said. She pulled the balloon animal hat from his head. "Keith will worry."_

_"Keith?" Anderson asked, his words slow and odd._

_"He's been there for years," Erica told him._

_"I should go."_

_He walked through the studio, the ground underneath him turning to grass, spongy and tickling under his feet._

_"Where have you been?" Keith asked. He sat on a rock. Rachel Maddow sat at his feet, nude, holding up a bowl a grapes._

_"I was in Colombia," Anderson answered, looking around. "They came after me."_

_"Of course they did," Rachel said. She straightened her shirt--when had she put on...?-- and reached to touch the back of Anderson's head. "Why would you expect anything different from them?"_

_"Keith?" Anderson asked as his lover stood and turned, walking away. "Where are you going?"_

_"Why don't you follow and find out?"_

*

Anderson was awoken by a small, rough hand on his cheek. His eyes popped open and he cried out in pain as his leg jerked in surprise. The hand instantly disappeared. He took deep breaths, clutching at his knee, digging jagged fingernails into the tender flesh under his knee, trying to distract himself from the chaos beneath.

"_Tiene dolor_?" a little voice asked.

"What?" Anderson asked. His vision settled on a small boy. He could have been no more than six or seven. He was dressed in raggedy clothes, his face a deep tan, aged more than it should be for his size.

"_Su pierna_," the boy pointed at his leg.

"Uh, _sí_," Anderson answered. His Spanish was limited. An ex-boyfriend had taught him a few things, words and phrases--most of them unsuitable for young ears. He had picked up a little more in his travels, but was anything but conversant.

"_Ven_, _iremos a mi casa_," the little boy said, rising from his crouch. He gestured with his hand and Anderson fought his way to standing, pushing himself up on his right leg using the tree for leverage. The kid started off into the jungle, taking some path Anderson couldn't determine, but followed anyway.

"Uh, _donde esta_?" Anderson butchered, trying to figure out how far he'd come in the past few days.

"_Dos or tres dias de pie de Puerto Inirida_," the boy said.

"Right," Anderson muttered to himself. "Why ask when you can't understand, Anderson?" He knew the boy had said 'two or three' and had mentioned Puerto Inirida, but he was at a loss to comprehend the rest.

They traveled maybe a few hundred feet before coming to a small clearing. Anderson nearly wept at the sight of the small house on stilts in front of him. A young woman, the boy's mother from her reaction to Anderson's appearance next to him, was preparing some food at a small bench on the ground. She was pretty, but had obviously had a hard life; her eyes were lined as were the brackets of her mouth -- evidence of happier times, perhaps.

"_Por favor_!" Anderson entreated, hands going in the air. She wasn't at all threatening, though the knife in her hand gave him some pause, but she was immediately on her guard. "_Necesito_, shit, uh, help?" He pointed helpfully at his leg. She seemed to understand him though because she came over and helped him to the bench. She knelt at his feet and tore away the handkerchief.

Anderson felt his stomach turn as he accidentally looked down and he closed his eyes on a moan.

"_Joaquin_,"she called to her son. "_Encuentra trapos y agua. Y un poco coca_." The little boy took off, reappearing a few moments later with a bowl of water. The woman squeezed out the rag that was sitting in it and began wiping at the area around the wound. Even this gentle ministration was enough to make Anderson bite his lip. He knew when she got closer he would need something a little more durable and a little less likely to give him even more pain. The little boy was back, thrusting forward several flat, elongated leaves, strange ash sprinkled over them. Anderson knew what it was, had heard her ask for it, and he hadn't exactly been a choir boy in his youth, but something about the plants gave him serious pause. The woman grabbed his hand, holding the plant loosely, and shook it, gesturing with her other hand to her mouth. "No," she pointed to her throat and mimed swallowing, "no, _solamente_," she mimed chewing.

"_Sí_," he finally said, pressing the three coca leaves into his cheek and biting down. The taste of the ashes was overpowered by the sharp taste of the coca, pleasant enough but a shock after his days-long diet of power bars and water. He swallowed the juices that began to accumulate and felt his mouth numbing under the effects of the alkaloids. The woman was still gingerly picking around the wound, turning her head this way and that, assessing the damage. Anderson had the uncomfortable feeling this wasn't the first time she'd dealt with a gunshot wound.

She grabbed another rag from a pile the kid had deposited next to them and held it to Anderson's mouth. He bit down on it, adjusting it, bracing himself. It didn't help.

He screamed raggedly through the cloth as she probed the wound. Even as the analgesic effects of the coca began to spread to the affected area, flames of pain assaulted his overtaxed nerves. His eyes watered with the stinging of the water. The water couldn't be clean, but better to see the damage, to clean as best they could, instead of letting it fester. She cleaned quickly and efficiently, mumbling soothingly in Spanish as he groaned and whimpered through her ministrations.

"_Un poco más_," she said and then she was wrapping new cloths around the wound, tying tight knots and checking circulation before standing. "_Estoy terminado_."

"_Gracias_," Anderson told her as the twisted and saliva-wet cloth dropped from his dry mouth.

"_Ven_," she said, helping him to his feet. He was astounded to feel a little bit better. Probably a product of the coca he'd chewed, which she now directed him to spit out. The ladder to which she led him stared at him dauntingly. He sighed and took the first rung. Thankfully, his "guns", as the media liked to call them, were strong enough to haul him to the next rung. He let his battered left leg trail behind him until he could sit on the platform and drag himself further into the hut, letting the woman come up.

He placed himself against a wall and watched as she mashed what looked like dried peppers in a small homemade mortar. When she had gotten them to a satisfactory size she reached for a carafe of water but Anderson stopped her.

"I have _agua_," he said, reaching in and pulling out a bottle of water, still mostly full. She snatched it from him and dumped the contents of the mortar into it. His eyes widened as the red powder spun into a tornado as she swirled the bottle.

"_Bebe_," she said, miming drinking. "_Todo_." He swallowed and closed his eyes, preparing for the heat of the peppers. It never came. The water flowed mostly smoothly down his throat. His stomach rebelled a little--he had been drinking only small amounts, trying to conserve--but he managed to down most of the bottle within a few moments. He wanted to know why he had to drink it but couldn't remember the word for 'why'.

He could guess that it wasn't meant to poison him, not after all that time she'd spent fixing him up. He sat as contentedly as one with a gunshot wound could and watched mother and son prepare a meal. A glance out the door indicated that night was indeed coming fast. He wouldn't have believed it if his watch didn't tell him so as well.

This had been the longest fucking day of his life.

  
** Chapter Two**   


 

Waking in the morning was an exercise in agony, one that Anderson did not want to repeat, ever. Naira--for he'd learned her name before passing out the night before--was there in an instant, forcing coca leaves covered with a little of the ash he couldn't pronounce into his mouth. He chewed, swallowing alkaloid laced saliva, hoping the pain would recede.

"_Necesita salir_," she said. She had apparently been up much longer than he and she was stuffing wrapped food into his backpack. "_Los soldados, vinieron antes de siete este mañana_." He still couldn't understand, but understood her urgency. He levered himself up, crouching over in the hut and gathered his pack. He emerged, squinting into the sunshine and grimaced at the ladder.

He knew it would be a dumb idea, but it was better than the alternative. He sat and pulled himself to the edge of the platform and dangled his legs, then his body, hanging on by his hands. Though the distance to the ground was maybe only a foot, this was still going to suck. He dropped.

When he came to he was on the ground looking up into Naira's amused face. She shook her head and helped him to his feet.

"_Los hombres_, _no entiendo_," she mumbled to herself, getting to work on whatever she had abandoned the day before to help Anderson.

"_Gracias_, Naira, _mucho_," he said.

"_Ve_," she said, waving her hand towards the jungle. "_Su piel blanca me ciega_."

The look on her face suggested she had just insulted him, but he figured she was allowed at least one insult for taking care of him.

His gait was slow and jerky, but the supply of coca Naira had given him kept the worst of the pain away. Still, he dragged the limb behind him as much as he could. It tired him more than usual, but should he need to move quickly at any point then the care he was taking now would hopefully pay off. The jungle was less dense through the path Joaquin had shown him, which meant less cover and more sunburn, but also made it easier on his leg. He kept a wary eye out, imagining the movement of soldiers in the winds that sometimes whipped through the foliage.

He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, flinging the sweat away. The skin of his belly and arms felt chilled even as sweat poured down his sternum and abdomen and from the sleeves of his t-shirt. He stopped briefly, leaning against a tree, overcome by a sudden headache and bout of nausea. He quickly drew out more coca and chewed it ferociously, letting the juices calm his stomach. He knew he should eat, but couldn't find the appetite for it. He decided to keep going, hoping in a while he'd be able to take food.

*

_"You know, if I'd known you were going to expel from every orifice I would have just skipped lunch," Keith told him as he wiped Anderson's mouth again with the wet wash cloth._

_"I'm gonna kill Erica, and her little shit of a son," Anderson managed before ducking over the toilet again._

_"You love that kid," Keith protested, washing out the cloth and kneeling again at Anderson's side. The man choked miserably and spit a few times before offering his face for Keith's cleaning._

_"I love giving that kid back to his mother," Anderson said, swishing with water and spitting it into the toilet. "Think I'm done for now."_

_"No more food for you. You are on liquids and _maybe_ crackers," Keith told him as Anderson brushed his teeth._

_"I don't even want to think about food," Anderson groaned._

_"And after that display, neither do I," Keith told him, helping him back into the bedroom._

_"But you love me enough to put up with it?"_

_"Anderson, I'd love you even if you'd thrown up on_ me."__

*

Lost in thoughts of Keith, Anderson was startled by the appearance of something... he did not expect. Around him the land had started to rise again, Anderson following the dip the meeting hills made. To his right was a tiny waterfall, picturesque as the sun hit the top of it just right. And on the rock adjacent to the little stream and falls was a very large cat.

A cat that was looking straight at him.

He stopped in his tracks and rolled his eyes heavenward, finding only leaves and the vague impressions of sunlight. He took a deep, slow breath and let his eyes meet those of the feline. It stared back, blinking lazily. He thought it might be a panther, black, sleek and large.

_"A melanistic jaguar is called a 'black panther' in the vernacular. They really aren't completely black. Standing close enough, you can see the vague impressions of the spots, or rosettes."_

Jeff's voice, excited like a kid, rang in his head. He didn't move. The cat came up from its sphinx position, resting on its haunches. Anderson hardly dared to breathe. He licked his lips and let his eyes dart frantically all around the area. He had no idea how to deal with a jaguar, had no idea about their, he swallowed, _preferred prey_. He hadn't been paying close enough attention.

God, he really hoped paying more attention to a blowjob rather than _The Jeff Corwin Experience_ wasn't going to get him eaten.

A rumbling noise was issuing from the big cat and Anderson's eyes returned to it just in time to see it open its _enormous_ jaws in a yawn that looked... well, actually looked pretty damned satisfying. Until he thought about how his little head would fit inside that gigantic mouth. And how squishy his head would be under the power of that jaw and those very large teeth.

The cat stretched, looking, except for its size, like a house cat. And then it was on the move. Gracefully, it padded down the rocks, rustling the leaves around it, eyes lazily locked on Anderson. It crossed the small stream, barely creating splashes as it came towards him. Anderson closed his eyes and kept breathing, though he felt as though the blood in his neck was pulsing, swelling, wanting him to scream or move. The cat didn't stop in front of him. It continued to his side and its wet nose dabbed at his thigh as he heard it, even over the other sounds of the jungle and the thumping of his heart, sniff the bandage attached to his leg. It snuffled a little and Anderson just let the saliva pool in his jaw as he waited for the animal to take a nice bite out of him.

Nothing happened. Only the quiet crunch of leaves and sticks under the powerful paws of the jaguar as it walked away. He didn't say a word, didn't move, until he turned slightly and saw that the cat was gone.

"That did _not_ just happen," he told himself as he finally stepped forward. Both his legs had gone stiff and he hissed as they unwillingly moved.

The jaguar incident aside, and he didn't know _where_ he got off calling it an "incident" since he'd nearly pissed himself in fear, the rest of his day was uneventful. He stopped more frequently, drank more water than he should have, but the wound in his leg was screaming at him. The coca only did so much for him, mostly numbing the nausea and the shivers that sometimes overtook him. He was pretty certain he was running a fever -- it was the only explanation for having chills in the middle of the jungle. The sun was setting before he'd realized it, and he was fairly certain he hadn't gotten nearly as far as he needed to.

Furthermore, something on the edge of his brain was beginning to bother him. Was Charlie all right? Charlie, though he'd been to every country with Anderson since the beginning, was not the survivalist Anderson was. Had he made it safely to Puerto Inirida? Had he been able to get Marianne? Was he okay? Was he dead?

These thoughts plagued him as the forest opened up before him. His eyes widened as they took in fields, acres wide, of coca plants.

He skirted along the edge, keeping an eye out for movement in the field. He didn't want to be discovered by whoever ran this particular field. He felt frantic, as though being here was more dangerous than were the men who hunted for his life. The plants looked innocuous. They weren't rough at the edges so as to leave small scratches, they had no natural defense against humans, they didn't _look_ dangerous. But even chewing on them for the past day had given Anderson a new respect for their power, for their potential.

The indigenous people of this area had been using coca since its discovery. It had become a part of their culture. They used it medicinally, to be sure, but there was more to it than that. The government, the American government rather, didn't understand that. The people they had met and interviewed in those first few days had told them as much. Bolivia, Peru, parts of Colombia, they all tried to tell Americans why _coca_ wasn't the problem. But no one listened.

Medicine, soap, toothpaste, all manner of things that could be made from the plant and the United States was more interested in eradicating it. Anderson's report, the one he'd been compiling just a few days before, would contend that coca was not the problem. Supply and demand was. The war on drugs had only concentrated the use of drugs. Half of all cocaine users had stopped using cocaine. The other half had started using their share. The war didn't look into the base of the trade, the reason it thrived. It had nothing to do with the consumers' need to get high. It had everything to do with a certain part of the population's need to survive.

It was "all academic" as some said, but Anderson didn't think so. The precious tapes in his backpack proved as much.

His thoughts scattered into different directions as the world turned dark, thinking of the shoot, of the process of editing the footage he'd taken, of Keith watching the final product, of the small impact he might be able to have. So few people cared about these issues. So few people cared to see beyond the addicts and the celebrity and the stupid rich teenagers who used the drug.

Intent on his thoughts, he didn't notice the danger until it was practically on top of him. The cock of a gun, the shout of a soldier. Anderson's head whipped around and he moved just in time to avoid the bullet. He took off at a run. It was hard. His leg was stiff and did not appreciate the pounding of his foot, but adrenaline cut through some of the pain. He was being pursued though, and they were gaining on him. He couldn't move as quickly and his movements were jerky and rough over the terrain. He made the decision and turned left into the coca field. They turned with him. He weaved in and out of the rows. They weaved with him. They didn't fire their guns though, which suggested that they were following the movement of the plants and not his actual person, not that it had stopped them before.

He was slowing down, his lungs were burning, his stomach flipping, his leg felt like it was being chopped off with a wood-chipper. Tears sprang to his eyes as he thought of how far he'd come, how much he'd survived only to be hunted down in a field of soon-to-be drugs. He tripped.

He went down spectacularly, leg buckling under him, making him scream. He scrambled to get to his feet, but his leg was having none of it. He could practically feel the muscle tearing, the blood flowing again. He turned on his back, ready to face his death now. He was too tired to keep going, too tired to even attempt to plead, to even ask why they wanted him dead.

"_PAREN_!" shouted an authoritative voice. "_Pongan sus armas en el suelo! Ahora!_" Anderson looked all around him. Floodlights had come on and illuminated the dirty, heaving figures of the soldiers. Beyond them were more figures, faces wrapped, holding machine guns. The soldiers didn't drop their weapons. A man came forward, withdrew a handgun and shot one of them point blank, the body falling practically on top of Anderson.

"_Dijo_," the man said in a smoother, more dangerous voice. "_Pongan sus armas en el suelo._"

Now, the soldiers obeyed. Dropping their weapons to the ground they held up their hands in surrender. The other men moved in then, herding the soldiers away from Anderson. The light suddenly disappeared from Anderson's vision and a face swam into focus.

"_Habla español_?" he asked softly.

Anderson knew that phrase; he shook his head, gritting his teeth as the pain in his leg made itself known over the fear.

"Okay, then," the man said, voice heavy with an accent. "These men, _los soldados_, they chase you?"

"They're trying to kill me," Anderson said.

"Do you know why?"

"I think they think I have information," Anderson fudged.

"Do you?"

"I don't know, they haven't exactly been very chatty," he said, groaning to draw attention to the pain he was in. The man disappeared and he felt him probing around the wound. He bit his lips, but the muffled sounds of pain still came out.

"This is a serious wound, _cazadito plata_," he murmured. "You need care." He started barking out orders and soon a litter arrived. "Sleep, _cazadito_, we will not harm you."

*****

When Anderson woke again it was to a gentle singing. He felt as if he were being held under a blanket. The pain was far away and hunger and thirst were his primary concerns. He couldn't make his mouth open. Couldn't even make his eyes open. He grunted a little, moved his head back and forth. The singing continued, but came closer.

"Shh, _cazadito_, the drugs were strong." It was the same voice from before.

Anderson managed to open his mouth but only managed breath sounds as his parched throat grated against the words that wanted to come out.

"Water?" He was dragged gently into a sitting position and a cup was held to his lips. He sipped gratefully, the cold water bringing greater awareness. He opened his eyes. His savior--or captor, who knew at this point?--was a very handsome man, maybe Anderson's age, maybe younger, it was hard to tell.

His hair was curly and black, hanging to just below his ears. His facial hair was well trimmed, though surrounded by stubborn stubble. His eyes were brown and amused, and his eyebrows naturally positioned to look perpetually skeptical.

"And here he is," the man said. "You were alseep for many hours."

"Where am I?"

"You are under my protection," he said, smiling and rising from the bed to sit in a chair nearby. "Geographically speaking you are about 180 miles from Puerto Inirida."

"Shit," he sighed. "I thought I'd gotten farther."

"The jungle plays tricks," the man shrugged. "More specifically, you are on... a farm of sorts. This is a base for us. This is my room." The room was low lit, but well furnished, the bed comfortable. Books and magazines covered every flat surface. "We were rather curious about your appearance. You are obviously American, you carry tapes with you, a cell phone."

"Do you have a tower near here?" Anderson immediately asked.

"I'm afraid not," the man said. "Too easy to triangulate our position. We learned the lessons of rebel struggles in the north. We have a land line but it does not reach beyond our country code. I am sorry."

"No, it's--you've helped so much already," Anderson said. "I don't know how to repay you."

The man waved the concern away. "You are an enemy of the army, that makes you friend to us," he said simply. "May I ask your name?"

"Only if I can ask for yours," Anderson offered.

The man's smile was sensual and his teeth white, suggesting he had not been brought up in the wilds of the jungle. "I am Leandro."

"Anderson Cooper."

"Yes, I thought it might be you," he said with a nod. "We have some civilization out here. No internet, no cell phone, but an old TV. You are a news man, yes?"

"Yes."

"And what were you doing here?"

"Reporting on the coca situation," Anderson answered truthfully.

"And what did you discover?" he asked. His eyes were like lasers -- they never wavered from Anderson's face and Anderson found himself returning the gaze.

"That the problem is the demand, not the supply," Anderson told him.

A grin. "You spend less time here than the men in government and already you understand better than they ever will. We provide because they do not. They tell the people to grow fruit. Where is the demand for tropical fruit, hmm? They send helicopters and guns and they train those _pendejos_, they spray the plants, they arrest the growers," he said as he shook his head.

"The U.S. has never been too interested in a fight that couldn't be won with force," Anderson agreed.

"Your southern bretheren are not much different. What will you say in your report?"

Anderson was starting to grow fuzzy again, his face burning up, ears ringing. "The truth," he answered, closing his eyes as the room began to spin.

"_Cazadito_?" the man asked, concerned. But Anderson couldn't answer him and slipped unconscious again.

When he was shaken awake it was daylight through the window. Leandro was seated beside him with a tray of food. He was no longer smiling.

"You are very sick, _cazadito_," he said lowly, mixing together the rice and beans. "The fever is high and the wound is angry. We have no real doctor and our field medic has done only what he dares do with such damage."

"I need a hospital," Anderson said. He took the proferred bowl, not hungry in the slightest and not liking the taste at all, but knowing he'd need his strength, need the protein and amino acids that the mixture would give him.

"_Sí_," Leandro said with a nod. Anderson choked down as much of the food as he could before becoming nauseated and pushing the bowl away. He sipped at the water, letting the coolness spread in his body, willing it to spread to his pounding head. Callused fingers wiped at the sweat on his face, pushing hair back from his brow. Anderson locked eyes with him briefly before looking away. The fingers moved away and a few minutes later they returned, holding a few leaves of coca, like the ones Naira had offered him, lightly dusted with ash.

"To calm your stomach." Anderson nodded and took them, chewing slowly.

"You are a very attractive man, _cazadito_," Leandro commented, leaning close. Anderson would blame the resulting flush from this compliment on the fever. "So few men are able to take such good care of themselves and not seem arrogant for their efforts."

Anderson didn't know what to say, his brain too locked on pain and misery to be able to fully deal with the situation. Did he say 'thank you?' Or just pretend to fall asleep? Or did he fall back on his old stand by of stammering embarrassingly and looking away?

He, of course, chose the latter. "Oh, um, I really don't think I'm that-that is, I'm not--"

"You cannot take a compliment given freely?" Leandro joked. Anderson's flush intensified. "It is your exoticism, I think. The color of your hair, the paleness of your skin."

Anderson let out a horrible giggle. "I'm really not all that impressive in my natural environment."

"I am certain that is a lie."

Leandro left him alone then, off to attend to whatever his duties were. Anderson could make a few educated guesses about who his rescuers were. FARC was the power in these parts. And while usually Anderson would have been a prime choice for kidnapping, in some sort of strange reversal, he was a willing guest. Whether they would keep him here against his will he couldn't guess, but Leandro's concern for his leg gave him the indication that they wouldn't.

Not to mention the fact that one of them, who seemed to be pretty important, was flirting with him.

At least, he thought it was flirting. He hadn't been in this position in so long and that thought had him rocketing back in time to--

*

_"You know, it's a rare thing to find someone who looks as good in person as they do on film," said a deep voice from behind Anderson. He turned and blushed to see Keith Olbermann, clad in a pinstripe suit and waistcoat. The charity dinner for the American Heart Association was an annual event on Anderson's calender, but he'd never seen Keith there before._

_"I can say with authority that you are overstating the matter," Anderson said, recovering. Anderson was very well aware that it was only his hair color that made him stand out from anyone else._

_"I don't think I am," Keith said._

_"And of course, everything you say is truth," Anderson said derisively, turning away._

_"It's a quantifiable thing, attractiveness," Keith continued, seemingly ignoring Anderson's jab. He was inexplicably angered that his pointed remark had been so summarily dismissed. "And on a quantified scale you rate on the high side of attractiveness."_

_Anderson felt like someone had hit him upside the head with a gas station sign. "I'm sorry, but, are you **hitting** on me?"_

_"Playing dumb really doesn't suit you, Anderson. Flaunt that Yale education sometime, I'm sure your viewers would appreciate the break from sophomoric humor."_

_"Says the guy with the puppets and voices and flicking thing," Anderson said. They paused there. "So, for clarity's sake, you were hitting on me?"_

_"Were, are, will continue to be until you agree to go out to dinner with me."_

*

Needless to say, he had gone on that date with Keith. They hadn't been inseparable ever since. In fact, they had been quite separable. Their first break had been right before Katrina, which had led to their first bout of real make-up sex post-Katrina (specifically post-interview with Mary Landreiu). The second time had been after a badly-timed interview in which Keith had compared Anderson's not coming out to the lies the Bush Administration had told. That particular fight--a gut-wrenching, screaming, throwing-things fight--had lasted nearly six weeks.

There had been no one else for Anderson in all that time, not even a twinkle in his eye. But here he was in the middle of Nowhere, Colombia with a Very Important Person in the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia hitting on him.

And Anderson hadn't exactly said 'no', had he?

He slept on and off, the fever making him see and hear things--vague shapes of people he might know, the skitter of Molly's paws on hardwood, an old song his brother Stan used to sing--he thought people were coming in to check on him. They left more water, juice, and nuts and dried fruit. Anderson managed to choke down a little of each before drifting off again and again.

Waking fully in the evening was a not fun experience. His stomach refused both food and water and no relief, not coca, not the cayenne pepper, could be found for the pain in his leg.

"_Cazadito, cálmate_, calm down," Leandro whispered, holding his shoulders as Anderson thrashed. "Sh, sh. Hold on to me," he instructed. Anderson had to, in his state, he needed whatever relief could be given. Leandro's large hands began rubbing his back, and he continued to mutter in Spanish in Anderson's ear.

The action was soothing, calming, and so long as Anderson focused on the movement of those hands and the warmth of Leandro's body he could stand the pain. When one of those hands began to stray he didn't even protest. It fluttered up and down his bicep, down his forearm, briefly grasping his hand, encouraging Anderson to grasp it in return. He dropped Anderson's hand and began a smooth course up Anderson's side and chest. To his very great surprise and shame Anderson felt himself grow hard. He tried to pull away, but Leandro's other hand held him fast.

"Sh, sh _cazadito_, let me do this for you," he said.

Anderson let his body go still, but turned his head, let his lips brush over a stubbled cheek until they found Leandro's. Leandro didn't possess, didn't press, only caressed Anderson's lips with his own. If there was persuasion in his lips, Anderson didn't know it and opened his mouth willingly to his tongue. Under Leandro's other hand his nipple hardened and he whimpered. Gone were thoughts of his leg, only tingling pleasure and care in its place.

The hand descended again, coming to rest on the bulge of his erection. Nimble fingers undid the button fly easily, a warm palm slid against his underwear and he bucked.

Agony ripped through him and he tore his lips from Leandro's to shout in pain.

"Sh, sh, Anderson," Leandro said, dropping a hand to his thigh, massaging out the knots Anderson had made by tensing it against the pain.

"Hurts," Anderson said through gritted his teeth, amazed when his erection didn't flag too much.

"Anderson, concentrate on the, _como se dice?_, endolphins," he said, stroking at Anderson's groin, laying kisses at his throat, behind his ears.

Anderson snorted a laugh. "I think you mean endorphins."

"Well, you would know better than I. You would also know better about how you like this," Leandro said, 'this' being the movement of his hand on Anderson's cock, pulled from his underwear. "You would know whether this," he twisted his fingers around the head causing Anderson's breath to stutter in his chest, "were to cause as violent reaction as this," he said, digging a thumbnail into the slit. Anderson threw back his head.

"Leandro!" he cried hoarsely.

"Yes, _cazadito_," he said, sucking sweat, dirt, and salt from Anderson's Adam's apple. He pressed Anderson back into the pillows, his rhythm never faltering. "It is good, yes, to accept this pleasure?"

Anderson threw his head back and forth. He didn't know what Leandro was asking. Was he asking whether it was good or whether it was right? It wasn't right. Fevered, in pain, aroused, delirious with it all, Anderson knew it was wrong. But his body didn't much care. His body wanted to feel something other than _fucking_ pain and exhaustion.

So, he ignored his brain; he dragged Leandro's lips from his neck and brought them to his, possessing his mouth, reveling in the strange feeling of facial hair prickling and reddening the flesh around his mouth. Leandro's hand sped up and when a thumb brushed, ever so lightly, over the head of his cock Anderson was lost.

He floated, as if he'd been shot up with morphine. He felt Leandro retreating, cleaning him up and covering him, but nothing else registered.

He awoke to the sensation of his leg being jerked around. Leandro was looking down at him, brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Anderson asked.

"I was tickling your foot, did you not feel it?" Leandro asked. Anderson looked at his foot dumbly. Leandro was running his finger up and down Anderson's left foot.

He couldn't feel a thing. He shook his head, growing frantic.

"You must get a hospital," Leandro declared. "We will leave tomorrow at dawn."

*****

To make Anderson comfortable in the jeep, Leandro had him lay across the back seat. The vehicle had been stripped of all features that would identify it as FARC-affiliated. Leandro had dressed in civilian clothing and brought only a pistol for protection. Their plan was to drive to San Jose de Ocune and ditch the jeep for a sedan before catching one of the main roads that would lead into Bogota. The trip would be over three hundred miles, but would take considerably _less_ time than Anderson's original plan.

"I have to get to a telephone," he told Leandro, still groggy with fever.

"You need to get to a doctor," Leandro countered. "We will only stop long enough for gas and for the new car."

Anderson wondered why Leandro cared so much. He'd known Anderson all of, what, two days? Had nursed him the best he could and even given him a fairly wonderful hand-job (yes, he did blush in shame thinking of it.) And yet he was more concerned with Anderson's health than Anderson was. Then again, with anything but his heart, Anderson hadn't exactly been the most... vigilant person when it came to his health. Or at least, that was what Keith said whenever he threw himself into another war zone.

*

_"That's entirely different, Keith."_

_"Uh, excuse me, I believe keeping your body free of bullet holes counts as 'staying healthy'."_

*

He didn't argue with Leandro, only let him and a few other men and young women make sure everything was ready and he was comfortable. Around them the "farm" came alive with day pickers and armed men. Leandro accepted food and water from a lieutenant and climbed into the front seat. With a roar of the engine they set off on the bumpy dirt road.

Misty air deposited condensation on his forehead and cheeks as they drove. He closed his eyes to the sensation, imagining himself anywhere but here. He wondered about Charlie and where he was. Wondered why there wasn't anybody in the air looking for him. CNN certainly had the resources, and they wouldn't want to lose their cash cow. He laughed humorlessly to himself and thought about the contract negotiations they were undertaking. Why did he even bother?

"You don't seem like... well, the stereotypical FARC soldier or commander," Anderson commented, trying to take his mind off the bumpy ride.

"Because I'm not some rural Indian peasant?" Leandro asked rhetorically, aiming a half-grin at him over his shoulder.

"You speak English very well, you seem more concerned with the politics of your situation than anything else."

"I was at university in Nicaragua," Leandro told him. "They had their own problems."

"I studied it in school," Anderson told him. "The Sandanistas and Iran-Contra."

"_Si_," Leandro confirmed with a nod. "I met many of those people, saw what was happening in El Salvador. It occurred to me, and I had not been a supporter of coca or that struggle, that the United States and my government were not so much interested in what would happen to the growers once their mission succeeded. The U.S. was interested in domination and my government interested in your currency. I left university and returned home and worked my way up the ranks of _las Fuerzas_. The Marxist-Leninist ideology is not so interesting to me. I simply want to make sure my countrymen are given the opportunities and security they deserve. For now, that means _el narcotico_."

"And if they came to you tomorrow and offered an equitable solution?"

"I would take it," Leandro said. "I am not a power hungry man, Anderson. I do not want to be doing this for the rest of my life. But I will if I have to."

Anderson dropped the subject then, more turned around than he'd been in many years.

Hours passed where all Anderson could do was stare at the changing, lightening, sky. He couldn't sleep in the truck. He didn't want to think about the email or CNN or Keith. He didn't want to think about what it meant that he'd lost feeling in his foot. He just wanted to float.

A bullet lodging itself in the back of the seat prevented that.

"_Mierda_," cried Leandro, swerving as a shower of bullets came around them. Anderson levered himself up enough to see the two army jeeps behind them. "Stay down!"

He ducked back, hunkered down as much as he could. Leandro had been keeping a speed that would minimize the turbulence of driving on compacted mud, but now he floored it.

"We are close to a road that will lead us past one of our checkpoints. They will hold off the soldiers," he yelled to Anderson even as he kept up the swerving motion. Anderson could hear the bullets as they lodged themselves into the body of the jeep, could hear them thunk against the upholstery, and when he heard the shattering glass of the windshield he covered his face as it flew backwards. Leandro still had control, though Anderson could see cuts on his face and arms.

The jeeps behind them got closer, pulling up before Leandro pulled away. The men who tried to aim at Anderson before Leandro hit the gas looked angry, looked utterly betrayed, even. Anderson wanted to gawk at them and ask them what the hell they expected when they went after an unarmed man with AK-47s, but he figured he wouldn't get an answer.

His strange, obviously feverish delusions were interrupted by Leandro making an insane turn, over a hundred degrees Anderson would guess later when his stomach wasn't trying climb up his throat, onto a hidden road. The soldiers turned with them, still shooting. But the checkpoint was near and Leandro was hitting the gas again, screaming "_Abran fuego_!"

Another flurry of bullets from the opposite direction followed the scream. Anderson peeked around the seat and saw men falling from the keeps as they were shot, lucky head shots spreading blood and gore all over those still living. He was therefore surprised when one of the jeeps blew up. He looked up into the trees and the platforms FARC had built and had never been so glad to see a smoking rocket launcher. He sank lower in his seat.

"We are good now," Leandro told him, wiping blood from his forehead. "We will reach San Jose in about two hours. Try to rest."

Anderson stared balefully at the back of his head.

_Rest. Fuck you. Even if you do give a spectacular hand-job._

Their arrival in San Jose de Ocune didn't even raise an eyebrow, something Anderson had seen in other parts of the world. Sometimes, it was better to just not ask. They switched the bullet-riddled, windshield-less jeep for an old, if comfortable and well-treated, sedan. Anderson was, again, laid in the back seat, better able to stretch out his leg and rest his head against the opposite window. Leandro cleaned up and got them hot food before engaging another driver to take over for Leandro for the night.

The road was smoother, Anderson would give it that. Paved, lit, very little chance of a shoot-out on the two lane highway though they still did not drive very fast, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. But Anderson himself continued to deteriorate. The worst thing was when it started _not_ to hurt.

"Leandro," he said. The other man came awake immediately and craned his head back to look at Anderson puzzledly.

"_Si, cazadito_?" Leandro asked.

"The pain is starting to disappear. That's bad, right?" Leandro's eyes were narrow and dark in the meager light from the dashboard.

"Yes, _cazadito_. That is bad."

He slept. Badly, but he slept, strange dreams plaguing him. He awoke with a crick in his neck to a rising sun. Leandro was giving directions to the driver. They were nearing Bogota.

"We have to go to an internet cafe," Anderson told him. "Please, my BlackBerry is dead and I need to--" he stopped himself. He'd never told Leandro about the email. He'd only told him that the soldiers had _thought_ that he had information.

"Anderson?" Leandro pressed. "You can trust me."

The strange thing was, Anderson was fairly sure he could. He told him about the email, watched the other man's eyes grow hard and maybe even a little shocked. Even with all he knew the United States was capable of, this seemed... unfathomable.

"Leandro, it's important that I get this information back to someone in the States. It's too important."

Leandro stared at him as though he was reading his mind. He licked his lips and stared at the driver.

"Are you certain, Anderson? That leg," he glanced at the limb. "Anderson, I did not want to alarm you before, but it is not likely the limb will survive if you do not have medical attention soon."

The breath went out of Anderson. The thought had occurred to him. But there was really no choice. "I know," he said softly.

Leandro's mouth went rigid and the lines around his eyes grew stern. "_Tomanos a un cafe de internet_," he told the driver, sending Anderson one last look. "I don't like this Anderson."

"This is bigger than me, Leandro."

*****

Internet cafes were all the rage in Latin America. In a part of the world where many could not afford a computer, these cafes had become important centers of global community and civil struggle. For the most part the cafe they had entered was filled with young people. None of them even looked up as they tapped away diligently or scrolled down pages of words, eyes glued to the screen. Leandro had insisted on Anderson putting on pants, not wanting people to ask about the bandage around his calf. That and a pair of sandals--his boot and sock were soaked with blood--and Anderson looked almost normal. Except for the sunburn, the dirt, the gunshot wound on his arm, and the fact that Leandro had to help him, shoulder levered under Anderson's armpit.

"I need a USB cable," he said.

"Is your email not available on the internet?"

"It is, that's what I'm afraid of. Someone was watching my email, they knew that it was synced to my BlackBerry. It would be simple to delete it from my account but not before it was sent to me."

He quickly entered his email and password, scanning the subject lines as two weeks' worth of mail loaded.

"It's not here, I need that cable," he said. If he had any way to charge his phone then he could simply email directly from it, but his charger was back at the inn. Once he synced up to the computer he could transfer the email back to his account and send it to Keith.

Leandro returned a moment later with the correct cord, and Anderson plugged it in. He clicked "start", opened up "My Computer" and opened the drive for the BlackBerry. He transferred it onto the desktop and then started a new mail to Keith.

He typed as quickly as he could but his movements grew clumsier and clumsier, and he knew it was because of the fever that had yet to abate. The world around him was swimming a little, but he concentrated on each letter, hoping they were in the right order. Finally, he uploaded the email and sent it off.

"Now, we _must_ get to the hospital," Leandro said, hauling Anderson to his feet, taking more of his weight as Anderson's legs turned to lead.

"Yeah, okay," Anderson said before his vision tunneled. "Think you better catch me," he mumbled.

"What?"

Taking a sharp breath, feeling the blood leave his face, Anderson collapsed.

  
** Chapter Three**   


One of the worst parts of the weeks when Anderson was away was the silence. Usually, there was music going, or the TV, or the man himself was chatting endlessly, not just to hear himself talk, but because he got to say things he didn't say in public. Keith should have found it irritating. He should have been glad for the peace and quiet. But he didn't and he wasn't. He and Molly were two sad individuals, moping around the apartment, waiting for their master to return.

There was no doubt in Keith's mind that Anderson was his master. The man was insanely possessive, guarding his life and Keith like precious toys that could be ripped away from him at the first sign of wrong-doing. It was something he hadn't understood before they'd started dating. He had derided that jealously guarded private life, claiming that talking about the deaths of your father and brother meant you couldn't keep things like your sexuality, who you were dating, or fuck, even your morning routine to yourself.

Having seen Anderson's morning routine he didn't know why he'd made such a fuss about it. Seeing all parts of Anderson now, he knew that his father and brother, his past and the few other details he'd let slip only scratched the surface of Anderson Cooper's life.

He finished tying his tie and grabbed his vest and suit jacket. Anderson had been gone for over three weeks now and it had been nearly that long since he'd spoken to his partner. Charlie had made regular check-ins with CNN, which Erica was kind enough to pass on to Keith, but there had been no word, beyond one or two emails the first week, from Anderson himself. Molly sat at the end of the bed, watching Keith dress, eyes following him across the room. She was certainly used to Anderson being gone so Keith decided it was probably his own forlorn mood rubbing off on the pooch. He threw his suit coat over his arm and left the bedroom, Molly following after.

In the office he gathered the copy he'd been working on the night before and got his BlackBerry from its charger. As he checked his mail on the device and made to leave, a beep from the computer stopped him. Then his BlackBerry beeped. He leaned over and clicked on his Mail program. His eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. Anderson had finally sent him an email.

Happily resigning himself to being late, he sat down and opened the message.

_Keith,_

_Before you do anything, know that I'm safe, or very soon will be. If you've heard from Charlie tell him as much as well. If he hasn't contacted you or told you what's going on here's what's happened. Eight nights ago we were shot at in a village way out Puerto Inirida. Charlie and I took off into the jungle but they kept chasing us. A day and a half later I found an email that I had received the night we were attacked which I believe is the reason they attacked me. We separated the next morning. I have no idea what happened to Charlie._

_Keith, this is heavy shit. I've attached the email to this one. What it says about our govermnent... and the fact that they were able to find me? Keith, this is serious business._

_I dont want to alarm you, but I was shot at one point in my trek. Its serious, Keith. But I'm alive and will soon be at the hostipal. I need you to take care of things on your end because nto only am I not in any shape to give you those details myself but I won't be in any shape to help you at this end._

_Please, please,please take this seriously. I need you to get this on the air and tothe proper authorities. Although, given tht I think our government is trying to assasinate me using a foreign army thats in their pocket, I dont think they're the ones you want to be talking to right now/_

_I love you and will hopefully see you soon._

_DON"T COME DOWN HERE._

_Anderson._

_PS if you doubt the vercity of this email: pumpernickel._

Keith stared in stunned disbelief at the words on the screen. His heart was pounding, focused solely on those words: "I was shot." The word pumpernickel brought back a memory in near-technicolor.

*

_"So you can't eat wheat gluten?" Anderson asked as they sat down at one of the outdoor tables of the deli they had decided on for their first date._

_"That's right. I become violently ill if I do. It's why I suggested this diner. They don't use it in the pumpernickel."_

_"I've never actually had pumpernickel," Anderson admitted._

_"You wanna bite?" Keith asked, gesturing with his sandwich._

_"What's on it again?"_

_Keith shrugged. "Pastrami, mustard," he said. "I like to keep things simple."_

_He offered Anderson a half, which the other man took with an apprehensive expression. Keith bit into the other half, keeping his bites of a normal size in deference to the sensibilities of his lunch companion but nearly laughed when Anderson himself took a large bite out of the sandwich._

_Keith watched as Anderson's face froze and then turned pitiful._

_He laughed. "You hate it and you'd really like to spit it out," Keith guessed._

_Anderson nodded, looking miserable. Keith made a show of looking around them, before passing Anderson a couple of paper napkins. "I won't tell if you won't."_

_Anderson managed to smile around the bite before covering his face with the napkins and, pretty gracefully actually, deposited the half-chewed bite into them._

_"Sorry," he said, red with probable mortification._

_Keith just shrugged again. "Our little secret." Anderson smiled at him then and leaned over abruptly, kissing him square on the lips._

_"There, now I have a more positive association with pumpernickel."_

_Keith sat in stunned silence, a goofy grin on his face, as Anderson started on his own sandwich._

*

Keith swallowed, face slack with disbelief, unable to take his eyes from the words "I was shot." With shaking hands he grabbed the handset from the desk and dialed Charlie's number. It rang for an interminable amount of time before the producer picked up.

"Hello?"

"Charlie? Listen, it's Keith and I just got this insane email from Anderson, is he with you?" There was a slight pause. Keith narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah, he's here. Off talking to one of the villagers," Charlie answered.

"Can you get him over to you so I can talk to him real quick?" Another significant pause.

"Well, he seems really into it; he's not even paying attention to me," Charlie said. Despite his obvious effort to keep his voice normal, Charlie's voice was growing perturbed.

"Charlie, I really need to talk to him," Keith tried again, disquiet growing in his mind.

"Why? It's not like he's your boyfriend," Charlie said.

A cold chill went down Keith's back. Charlie was one of the _only_ people who knew Anderson was his boyfriend. Charlie hadn't been calling CNN willingly. Which meant that Anderson was telling the truth and no one knew what had happened to him.

"All right, Charlie," Keith said, trying to keep his voice steady, "I'll quit bugging you then. Let 'im know I got tickets to a Yankees game so he can stop nagging me about going."

"Right, Keith," Charlie said, and Keith could hear the almost inaudible sigh of relief. He only hoped Charlie's captors hadn't.

He hit the "end" button and placed the phone back in its cradle, biting his lips and trying to get his stomach under control. His attention turned back to the email and he clicked on the attachment, downloading it onto the desktop.

With some trepidation--this information had nearly gotten his partner killed--he opened the email. For one thing, it was large. He scrolled through document after document, eyes wide, horror probably evident in every line of his face as things even _he_ hadn't accused the Bush Administration of were revealed in the damning documents. At the end was a short message from the sender.

"_I know this sounds fantastical; I know I'm a blind source. But this is real shit and I'm risking my ass to get this to you. I've got no way to validate this without giving myself away. I can assure you though, should you run with the story people will come forward._"

It wasn't quite enough for Keith, that assurance, but the documents looked authentic. They held information that was both chilling and accurate. Keith felt the truth of the memos, the paperwork, the code of silence so many took on the subject.

Keith didn't know what to do first; there were too many things he needed to do. He hit print, hearing the printer start up, and watched as the email, including Anderson's bit, began to print. He then picked up his BlackBerry and scrolled to Erica Hill's number.

"Erica Hill," she answered crisply.

"Erica, it's Keith," he said quickly.

"Oh hi, Keith, I haven't heard from Charlie toda--"

"Yeah, well I have," Keith said. "I've also heard from Anderson. Charlie has been calling CNN against his will and was separated from Anderson at least six days ago."

"What?!" she exclaimed, and he could hear her demanding to speak to a producer that could get her access to Jonathan Klein.

"Yeah, I've had an email from Anderson. He and Charlie were fired on by the Colombian army. Anderson has been shot and has apparently been trekking through the jungle to get to a hospital, but hey, had to stop and email me documents that say that the Bush Administration _knew_ about 9-11 and let it happen."

There was stunned silence on the other end of the phone then a cacophony of voices broke out.

"Uh, Keith, I put you on speakerphone," Erica said, sounding sheepish.

"Well, shit," he said eloquently. But he had bigger things to worry about than people finding out about his and Anderson's relationship.

"Olbermann, this is Jon Klein," a new voice said. "How did you come by this information?"

"Anderson sent me an email, he included a kind of code phrase. I can't guarantee the veracity of the information, but these soldiers are trying to _kill_ him and they've got Charlie Moore calling you all trying to buy time for them to get the job done. I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do here," he admitted. "Anderson asked me to contact the proper authorities but admitted that at this point he'd not sure who that might be."

"All right, Keith, we're sending our security people to Colombia. They'll be able to locate Anderson, but I'm not sure how we're going to get to Charlie. You need to get on the air with this information and you need to do it soon. Hopefully that will smoke out whoever it is that is giving the orders here so we can negotiate the release of Charlie," Klein said authoritatively.

"Right," Keith nodded. He didn't like handing over planning power to Klein, but the man was in a much better position to help Anderson and Charlie than Keith was.

Keith exchanged a few more details with the people on the phone before hanging up and grabbing the sheaf of papers that constituted the email. He stuffed them into his backpack with his Blackberry and copy. He deleted the email from all accounts and cleared the cache, making sure there was no trace of it left on the hard drive before leaving the room. He left the apartment without a backwards glance.

On the street Keith walked quickly, glancing behind him every so often, and was glad he did when he noticed two suits walk up to his and Anderson's apartment building. He sped up a little, scanning for a cab, but not seeing any that weren't taken or immediately hailed by others. He kept walking. Another quick glance behind him indicated that the suits had ascertained his absence and were now following him. And getting closer.

_Jesus, I'm not fucking cut out for this shit._

He braved traffic and sprinted across a busy street, ignoring the honks of horns, the burning in his chest, and the shouts of the suits as they attempted to follow him. He kept an eye out for a cab as he ran down the next street. People dodged around him and, like true New Yorkers, yelled all manner of obscenities in his direction. He realized, with traffic backed up as it was, that getting into a cab would make him a sitting duck and he'd never make it to Rockefeller Center. He could take the subway; there was a stop nearby that would take him straight there. But, he was also worried that even in that inevitable crush, they would find him.

Fuck it, it was his only option. He made for the nearest station, practically tripping down stairs, ignoring shouts of his name and other expletives. He craned his head back to check on his pursuers and noted that they had picked up a friend.

So intent was he on his escape that he went careening into a fellow running traveler. He picked himself up before helping the other person up and was about to take off when he noticed who his unintended assaultee was.

"Rachel!" he exclaimed.

"Keith!" she said as well, smiling. "You're in a rush, what--"

"Rachel, I really don't have time to talk." He looked up and saw that the men were coming closer. "Shit, meet me on the train, okay?"

"Sure," she said, staring after him confusedly as he quickly went through the turnstile and got on the train. He noticed her following discretely and ducked down to hide his height. He went from car to car, looking back to see her following and breathed a sigh of relief when the men didn't make it onto the train. They sat in the front car, Keith attempting to catch his breath.

"Who the hell are you running from?"

"I'm not entirely sure who they are, but I know what they're after," he pulled out the hard-copy. "Listen, I've got another copy on my BlackBerry."

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"If I can't make it to Rockefeller Center I need you to get this to my producer." Rachel was flipping through the papers, eyes going wide behind her glasses.

"Is this for real?" she asked.

"Well, someone tried to kill Anderson Cooper for this information, so I'm going to go with yes," he said.

"Anderson Cooper? Isn't he in Colombia or something?"

That threw Keith a little. "You keep up with his show?"

She blushed a little. "I like his world reporting. But what about you? Why is Anderson Cooper sending _you_ this stuff?"

"We're," he cleared his throat, "um, involved."

This made Rachel smile wickedly. "Oh really? And why didn't you tell me we were in the same club?"

Keith put on a fake superior look. "I simply don't know you well enough, Ms. Maddow."

"That's Dr. Maddow, to you," she said. "All right, so I'm to deliver this information to Izzy Povich and then what?"

"And then... you can stick around? If I can't get there, then I'll have to find my way back eventually."

"Keith," she said warily.

"This is serious, Rachel. Anderson's life and the life of his producer are on the line here. Tell Izzy to get the story out on the wire and that she should include that Anderson has been shot and that Charlie has most probably been captured."

"Shit," she whispered.

"Yeah."

"And he's your partner?"

Keith paused, looking out at the darkness rushing by. "Yeah."

*****

As they neared Rockefeller, Rachel moved back a few cars, carefully stowing the documents in her own backpack. Keith himself wedged in next to the door and when the train stopped was the first one off. He took the stairs two at a time, but as he began to approach the Center, he saw two men point at him and start after him. He cursed and turned on his heel and started to walk against the flow. He only made brief eye contact with Rachel as he passed her and quickly oriented himself toward Columbus Circle.

He quickly headed down Fifth Avenue, planning to zig-zag through the streets to make it to the Time Warner Center. He could only hope Rachel hadn't been stopped. There was no way he could out-run these guys. No matter that he just wasn't in good enough shape, the world conspired against him to slow him down. The crowds were thick around him, full of tourists and people with their cellphones glued to their ears. He glanced backwards and was amazed to see that he had lost the men in the crush.

Or so he thought as the men ran out into the street to circumvent the pedestrians, angering cab drivers everywhere--apparently they were more intent on apprehending Keith than on not dying.

He turned down 54th and was relieved to see the traffic letting up. He crossed the street, but the men were right behind him, so close. He stuck out his hand and a cab screeched to a halt in front of him. He opened the door and was about to jump in when one of the men grabbed onto his backpack. He nearly yelled in frustration and grabbed the door, thrusting it towards the man. He yelped with pain as it connected with his knees and face and Keith was able to get into the cab.

But the other man--the one he'd beamed with the cab door was holding a bloody nose and glaring at him--jumped in with him and held a gun to his side.

"I suggest you stop running, Mr. Olbermann," the man said, so very unwinded that Keith glared at him mostly for that and not the gun.

"You're seriously going to shoot me?"

"You were evading a federal agent, Mr. Olbermann. I've shot people for lesser offenses. Let's just go have a talk shall we?"

The "talk" was an interrogation. He was taken to the FBI building and thrown in a very small room with what was supposed to be intimidatingly hard furniture. The men obviously didn't know him very well. He'd sat on harder, in the pouring rain, just to catch an afternoon game at Yankee Stadium. He yawned and perched on the chair wondering how long they were going to sweat him before they got on with it.

His watch told him several hours.

Cheech and Chong, as he'd taken to calling them for their disparate heights, came in looking smug and pissed off.

"Wanna tell us why the President of the United States is so intent on your arrest?"

Keith shrugged. "I hurt his feelings on television last night?"

"Actually he seems to be more concerned about you coming across some information you shouldn't have." The taller one got close to his face. "You reporters, you think everything is news. You think you have the right to endanger this country just because of your goddamn 'integrity?'"

Keith didn't even flinch. "I fail to see how exposing them as the mass murderers that they are compromises _my_ integrity," he said lowly, anger burning low in his belly. It was obvious to him that the men in front of him had no actual idea what information it was Keith had. They had been given their orders and had probably been told it was for the sake of national security that Keith be taken in.

"Let's just cut right to the chase, shall we?" the smaller one said. "We checked your email at home and your BlackBerry for the email. We believe you made a hard copy. Where is it?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question," Keith said simply. "Not without a lawyer present."

"You want a lawyer?" the hotheaded one asked. "Gonna wrap yourself up in the Constitution then? Gonna make _us_ look like the bad guys?"

"I could ask meaningless, rhetorical questions instead, but at this point I'm afraid you'll just try and answer them," Keith shot back, sick of the man's idiocy.

The door to the interrogation room swung open and an older gentleman, probably in his fifties or sixties, came in. He took one look at Keith and turned to the agents.

"Out of the room boys, this is CIA jurisdiction," the man said, his voice gravelly and deep. The agents glared at both Keith and the man before gathering their things and leaving, closing the door behind them.

Keith had the feeling the shit was about to hit the fan. He didn't have details of what the CIA had been up to for the last six years, but he was sure, with Bush and Cheney in charge, it hadn't been anything good. The man ran a hand over his face and through snowy white hair before propping his hands on his hips.

"I knew that information would get Cooper into trouble."

Keith stared at the man, dumbfounded.

"I'm not high enough in the company to have been any more help than I was, and now he's dragged you into it."

"He was shot," Keith said faintly. This was the man who had sent the email.

"I knew Cooper when he interned. I was just an analyst at the time for Africa. Anderson was a sharp boy, wasn't meant for the bureaucratic nonsense they made him do. He would have been a great field agent, but the men up top wouldn't know a good thing if it bit them in the ass."

*

_"So, seriously, tell me about the most serious boyfriend you've ever had," Keith asked him one night as they recovered from another marathon round of sex._

_"God, Keith, why are you so obsessed with my sexual history?" Anderson asked. "I mean, even before all this you were obsessed with me coming out."_

_Keith shrugged. "I'm just curious. You know all about mine."_

_"Against my will," Anderson grumbled. "All right, most serious, you say? Like I was serious about him?"_

_"You were serious about someone who wasn't serious about _you_?"_

_Anderson lay there, apparently lost in thought, or memories._

_"It was while I was interning at the CIA. I was working in the Africa division and there was this analyst," he closed his eyes, "Robert. But I called him Bobby. He was so smart and so funny. He had this quirky grin that made him just look ridiculous sometimes. I was working late one night and so was he and we were both at the Coke machine and suddenly we were kissing. I wasn't very experienced then. I'd had a few kisses in high school, that was it. He didn't seem very experienced either, though maybe he'd just never been with another man." He snorted. "Boy, really. He pressed me against the machine and kissed me and God, this is embarrassing."_

_"You came in your pants, didn't you?" Keith asked with a wicked grin._

_Anderson laughed. "I did. Just having him pressed against me was enough. I nearly died of mortification. But he didn't say anything. Just took me home and fucked me. It turned into a nightly thing." His mouth turned down. "I thought he loved me. I went back to Yale at the end of the summer and came down to visit a few times. Came back the next summer and we started it up again. But then, after Carter died I wanted him to come to New York, but he wouldn't, he just," Anderson shook his head, "he just said it wasn't meant to be and sent me on my way. I think he got married the next year."_

_"How much older was this guy?"_

_"He was nearly thirty-seven," Anderson admitted._

_"Jesus, Anderson!"_

_"Well!" he exclaimed defensively. He calmed down. "After Bobby I never trusted anyone else enough to even attempt a relationship."_

*

"So, I can assume you're not here to torture the information out of me?" Keith asked, regaining some of his equanimity.

The man quirked a dry grin--it made him look a little like a demented monkey. "I'm here to spring ya, Olbermann." He slapped the table and gestured for Keith to follow him. Keith raised his eyebrows and stood, noting the man was nearly taller than him and much thinner, but followed him.

Outside the man quickly dispensed with Cheech and Chong and the Assistant Director, who had come down to see who the fuck had taken over his interrogation room. Keith was actually quite impressed with the tongue-lashing the man delivered. After his dramatic arrest, Keith was amazed that they didn't put up more fuss. He half expected, as they walked out the front door, for Secret Service agents to come running up.

They stood together in the cold watching New York City walk by.

"I'd feel bad about bringing you both into this, but somehow I think you'd find that insulting," the man said.

"We're journalists, we're--well, Anderson at least, is used to it," Keith said.

The man sighed and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "I gotta disappear, Mr. Olbermann. They'll know it was me who gave out the information once they hear I sprung ya from the FBI. I was able to cover myself when I sent the email, but beyond that, I had no control. Once you get it on air, once everyone starts reporting it, more will come forward. I was the only one who didn't have a career on the line."

"You've been at the CIA for over twenty years," Keith argued.

"Yep, worked my way up from lowly analyst to head of my own department," he said with a nod. "And I'm fucking sick of it." He raised an eyebrow at Keith and started to walk away. "Go change the world, Mr. Olbermann."

Keith hailed a cab and asked for Rockefeller Center. He was going to do just that.

*****

_"The information we're getting is fantastical, but made all the more real by the circumstances surrounding its discovery..."_

_"Not a whole lot is known other than the fact that he was shot. There is no information about his condition. Security forces employed by CNN are headed down to Bogota..."_

_"Producer Charlie Moore is in the custody of the Colombian army..."_

_"... memos, emails, and other documents, assert that President Bush and Vice President Cheney not only knew about the attacks on September 11th, 2001, but allowed them to go forward in order to set the stage for an Iraqi invasion..."_

_"No word on the source of these reports, but the administration, at least, is taking it seriously..."_

_"I mean, listen, are we talking about Impeachment?"_

_"We're talking about war crimes. We are talking about serious jail time..."_

_"Keith Olbermann was taken in by the FBI for having this information..."_

_"... still looking for anchor Anderson Cooper from CNN."_

_"Where is Anderson Cooper...?"_

_"Where is Cooper...?"_

*****

Leandro Alvaros stared at the man he'd come to regard as his charge. His face was sunburned and the lines around his mouth and eyes were deep with tension. Around him the nurses and doctors worked. He'd already had three surgeries and it was only two days they'd been here.

Leandro knew he could have left. He could have gone back to the jungle, he could have let the man's Americanness get him the best care and simply abandoned him to his fate. But he had not. He had stayed by his side. He didn't know whether he was being altruistic or irrational. This man did things to him with one look that he had not felt since Diego at university.

But they lived in different worlds. The relief Leandro had provided for the wounded man had been only that. He wore the look of one who was betraying another but was in too much pain to refuse any help. The affection that had grown in Leandro since that first night continued to torment him. But in a few days his little hunted one would go home to his shiny world in the United States, put on his suit, talk to the camera, and Leandro would go back to the jungle and put his fatigues back on, pick up his gun.

He heard the two doctors who were the most concerned talking in low tones to a group of intimidatingly tall _gringos_. The doctors pointed into the room and a couple of them came in.

"Hi, Michael Ware," said one man with a strong accent and a broken nose.

"Leandro Alvaros, can I help you?" he asked suspiciously.

"We're from CNN, those are our security guys," the man said. "We're here to ensure Anderson's safety and to go after his producer."

"You have news of the producer? Often he spoke of him in his delirium."

"He was captured by the army. They've kept him alive to make phony calls to our studios in New York," Ware explained. He looked at Anderson and Leandro heard his breath catch before he looked away, looking troubled.

"You got him here?" one of them asked.

"Yes," Leandro responded. "I came across him nearly two days after the initial gunshot wound. I kept him at my place for two nights before I thought it safe enough to head to the city."

The man's brow furrowed. "How was your home more safe?"

Leandro smiled. "I have some very good friends with some very intimidating firearms."

"You're FARC aren't you?" asked the other man.

"Yes," Leandro answered, smile going wider.

"And you helped him?" Ware asked.

"I have heard the expression 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'," he said flippantly. "We know this man, we are not simpletons. He was being chased by the army. We helped him."

"My contact in FARC intimated that our producer would be held in Santa Fe de Ralito," Ware said, looking to Leandro for confirmation.

"It is as likely as anything else. That stronghold is very difficult to penetrate, only our snipers have had any luck," Leandro warned him.

"Would the soldiers give him up if they knew that the information has already been published and the American government is ceasing aid to the country?"

"It is worth, as you say, a shot," Leandro said with a shrug. It was likely that he was being held by paramilitaries. They might kill him out of spite.

The other man, who hadn't introduced himself, was already on the phone with whomever was in charge, giving them options. He nodded his head sharply a few times before snapping the phone shut and turning back to them.

"Surgical strike," he confirmed. "They've traced the tower. It's _not_ Santa Fe de Ralito," he said. "Looks like they're somewhere outside Cartagena."

Leandro nodded. "Your strike will be much easier then."

"We're going to need more than the security team," Ware said.

"How many did you bring?"

"A team of six."

"May I make an offer of forces?" Leandro asked. He had put everything on the line for a man he hardly knew. Why not go the extra distance and do it for someone he had never met?

Ware looked hard at his companion.

"It's up to you, Ware," the man said. "No one here is gonna talk."

Ware turned back to Leandro. "We'll take 'em."

Leandro smiled.

*****

Leading the team going into Cartagena and locales beyond took Leandro away from Anderson's side, but with Michael there it made him somewhat extraneous.

Anderson had woken only a few hours after the CNN people had arrived and after seeing his leg, hadn't said much of anything to anyone. He, however, did insist that no one call 'Keith.' Keith, Leandro assumed, was the man's lover. He had a right to know that Anderson was okay, in his opinion, but it was not his decision to make.

He looked at the men he had recruited for this "surgical strike" as the man, Dave, had called it. He had asked for only the most experienced, the most patient, the most non-partisan. Now, with the security team, they numbered fifteen.

The place where the soldiers had been keeping the producer was little more than a ranch. Pigs and donkeys snorted and flies swarmed over their faces as they surrounded the place. The security forces had brought all sorts of technology that Leandro had only heard of, including some sort of infrared device. Dave flicked it on and pointed it towards the house. Leandro peered over his shoulder and flicked on the expensive headset the Americans had given out.

"There are only eight soldiers. The target is in an interior room. Two of the soldiers are guarding his door. Three are in the kitchen, the other three are in the living room," Leandro said, then repeated the same information in Spanish. Both English and Spanish replied and they began to move.

The Americans moved differently than his own men; it was easy to spot who was who among the black-clad figures. The Americans were practically hunched, P-90s jammed snugly into their shoulders. His men moved like the guerillas they were; swift and graceful, loosely cradling their guns instead of choking them. They converged on the house.

Dave carefully checked the door; it slid open easily so he, Leandro and another FARC member tip-toed through the entrance. Once everyone was positioned, Dave whispered 'go' and they burst into the house.

The soldiers, paramilitary types with no brains and little training, scattered for their guns. Only one of them made it to his firearm but Leandro quickly dispatched him with a shot in the arm and another in the leg. The guards on Moore's room were not the quickest. Instead of getting rid of their prisoner they had run to help their comrades. Forgetting to bring their guns. Leandro ordered his people to stay on the soldiers while Moore was retrieved and he began to tie them up with the twist ties Dave had brought.

The man who came out with the security team looked little worse for the wear. His hair was lank with grease and he was dirty and thin, but Leandro could detect no discomfort in his movements or wounds on his body.

"Anderson?" he immediately asked.

"At a hospital in Bogota," one of them answered. Instead of looking relieved, Moore simply looked more concerned.

"I need to see him," and he made as though he was going to walk all the way back to Bogota, but Dave grabbed his arm.

"There's something you need to know."

*****

"So, you will get further treatment in your country?" Leandro asked Anderson as he helped him into the wheelchair. The man had refused help from both Michael and Charlie--rescuing someone tended to put one on a first name basis--and probably would have tried to get into the chair by himself if Leandro hadn't come by.

"You will let a near-stranger help you before you let your friends?" Leandro asked.

"You don't look at me like..."

"Ah," Leandro said. He did understand. His _cazadito_ was a proud man. Even legitimate concern would leave a bad taste in the mouth of one so private and independent.

"I guess asking for your number or address would be foolish?" Anderson asked with a dry grin.

Leandro returned the smile. "Perhaps we will see each other again some day." He let Anderson roll himself out, though he held open the door, and they met Charlie and Michael outside. The two men were standing quietly, hands jammed in their pockets. Anderson stopped rolling and turned his head towards Leandro.

"I need to thank you," he said quietly.

"Ah, perhaps I would not have done the same for anyone, but you have nothing to thank me for."

"I do," he insisted. "You could have dumped me on the road, at the hospital. You didn't have to help me in the first place. So, yes, I need to thank you."

Leandro thought to protest further but knew the man wouldn't let it go. "Then you are welcome." He bent over and pressed a kiss to Anderson's head.

Ten minutes later he watched the hunted one roll out of the hospital.

He didn't look back.

  
** Chapter Four**   


Keith was pissed off, and frankly he was pretty sure he had good reason to be. He had spoken to Anderson only once since he'd woken in the hospital. That conversation had been a short one asking Keith to meet him at the airport the next day. He had sounded closed off, voice low and full of some emotion Keith couldn't identify.

He paced the area around the baggage claim, working out just how exactly he would bawl Anderson out when he got off the plane.

The past week had been a shit-storm of interviews, lawsuits, and general public outcry. When it was learned what had happened to Anderson once he'd been sent the email people generally took the news seriously. After the first night CNN and MSNBC had been inundated with people from the CIA and NSA, from top to bottom, showing up to blow the whistle. Legal experts were already speculating on what would happen to Bush and Cheney, and Congress was already drawing up Impeachment articles. It had already been known that warrantless wiretapping was going on; it _hadn't_ been known that journalists, high-profile ones especially, were being given constant attention. Keith's name had been on the list. Wolf Blitzer, Chris Matthews, even _Jon Stewart_ were also on the list. The recriminations had started the moment an agent had popped out of the woodwork. "What did you know and when did you know it?" became the mantra on everyone's lips.

His eyes suddenly fell on the preternaturally white hair of his lover and he felt a huge swell of both fondness and anger.

"Where do you get off calling me _once_," he said as the group came closer. "I have to hear about everything from the wire?!"

Charlie and Michael Ware both stepped away. It would amuse Keith that they were leaving Anderson to his wrath, except that neither man would look at them.

"I'm sorry," Anderson said quietly. "I wanted to, but I couldn't think of anything to say."

"Well, how about 'I'm okay', 'I love you', 'how has your month been?'"

"Keith," Anderson said, still so quiet.

"Seriously, Anderson," Keith said, not wanting to let Anderson start talking. "I was fucking sick with anxiety. All you tell me is you've been shot, all they'll," he pointed to the other two men, "tell me is that you didn't want to talk on the phone. I mean, Jesus, Anderson--"

It was then that he noticed it. He had expected Anderson to be a wheelchair after he'd learned that he'd been shot in the leg. What he hadn't expected was the empty pant leg.

"Oh my God," he whispered. Anderson wasn't looking at him. His head was hanging down, turned to the side. "Andy?"

"I didn't know how to say it," Anderson said quickly, voice breaking on the penultimate word. Keith could barely speak and the anger turned to horror, making his stomach roil. He sank down in one of the seats, placing a hand on Anderson's.

"Tell me what happened," he said gently.

Anderson took a deep breath. "I was shot in the calf. It burrowed through my deep tissue and nicked some nerves. I lost feeling in my foot and they said there was just too much damage. They went through three surgeries trying to repair it, but in the end..."

"And they couldn't wait 'til you got back to the States?"

"My doctors were Cuban, Keith, they're better doctors than any in the world," Anderson said. "If they said they couldn't save the leg I'm going to have to believe them. They cut it off at the knee."

Keith squeezed his hand, unable to comprehend. "How are you so calm about this?"

"What?" Anderson asked, showing a little more life. "I'm supposed to cry and tear out my hair? I can't change this, Keith. There's nothing I can do but move forward."

But Keith knew his lover, arguably better than anyone in the world. Anderson was the king of "moving forward," but often at the expense of real healing. But for now, Keith would drop it. No one liked to see a couple blow up in the middle of an airport.

"Well, I hired a car," Keith said.

"Thanks," Anderson said, gesturing for the two other men to come back over. Charlie was carrying the backpack that Anderson had hung onto all the way through the jungles of Colombia. They had no other luggage. The two men said goodbye to Anderson and went to hail cabs. Keith and Anderson started out the door towards the parking garage.

"How come no one else knew what had happened?"

"Charlie and I were by ourselves, we hadn't been keeping up communication very well. We gave our guys a week before they were to start worrying. The army forced Charlie to call."

"Right, I talked to him."

"Yeah," Anderson said. They came upon the car a few minutes later and Keith was faced with the dilemma of how Anderson was going to get in. "Help me?" Anderson asked softly.

"Yeah," Keith said. "How--"

"I still have one working leg Keith, I just need a hand," Anderson said, voice going a little sharp.

Keith didn't say anything, only held out his hand. Anderson pressed his own--still riddled with small cuts and calluses--into it and levered himself onto his right leg. He then made the transfer quickly, hopping a little, into the seat.

"Thanks," he said. "The wheelchair is the airport's."

Keith deposited the chair back in the airport and got in the front passenger seat.

"Did you think to order another chair?" Keith asked, letting a little of his irritation slip through.

"Yes, actually, I did. It should arrive tomorrow."

The trip home was spent in silence.

*****

Word quickly spread through the news networks about the nature of Anderson's injuries. Everyone had experts on about limb removal and the lives of amputees. Keith said not a word and CNN spent only brief moments discussing the issue before moving on to the real news: the impeachment of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney.

The Justice Department, corrupt though it was, had been charged with investigating the whole thing, including the use of a foreign army to attempt the assassination of an American citizen. The House and the Senate had both convened special committees to keep an eye on the investigation. Both Republicans and Democrats were stunned and angered by the presumption, the criminality, of the Bush Administration. They weren't speaking of High Crimes and Misdemeanors. They were talking about treason.

The administration hadn't said a word. An admission of guilt as loud as one heard in any courtroom.

At home, things were tense.

Anderson didn't want any help beyond what was necessary. That meant getting a chair for the shower and moving things around so the wheelchair could get by. While he still had some post-op pain, and some irritation around the site of the amputation, for the most part Anderson had healed. The gunshot graze on his arm had nearly healed with only a thin scab over the top of it. The sunburn was peeling off. And little by little, Anderson disappeared behind a wall so high Keith wondered if all that he had accomplished over the past two years, mental health wise, was simply gone.

"I'm going in for a consultation next week," Anderson told him as they ate lunch one afternoon.

"Consultation for?"

"For a prosthetic limb," Anderson said. "Thankfully, the doctors were able to salvage my knee. What research I've done and what the doctors have told me suggests that I'll regain most normal movement."

"Seriously?" Keith was amazed. He wasn't really up on the whole prothesis thing but he hadn't known lives could return to normal afterward. It just boggled him that it could be that easy.

"Yes," Anderson said. "There are a couple of doctors on Long Island who are certified for this kind of work. They're going to go over my options tomorrow."

"And then what?" Keith asked.

"And then I go back to work," Anderson said. Keith was fairly certain it couldn't be that easy. But Anderson was speaking about the situation like it was just a splinter he was going to get taken out or something.

"And that's it?" Keith asked.

"What do you mean?" Anderson asked, and Keith knew he was playing dumb.

"You think it's just 'here's your new limb, have a good day at work?'"

"Well, there will be rehab, of course," Anderson told him.

"Anderson!" Keith exclaimed, pushing away from the table and coming to his feet. He collected their dishes and tried to cool his temper. "Anderson, you and I both know you are not exactly the poster-child for mental health. You went through something extremely traumatic down there! I know this and you haven't even _told_ me what happened to you! All you've said is 'I was chased and I got shot', forget the fact that you were running around on a severe gunshot wound for at least two days!"

"Keith, it's really just not that important," Anderson said, wheeling himself out from under the table and heading towards the office. Keith followed him.

"Really, Anderson? You're really gonna try _that_ tired line on me?"

"It's not a line, Keith! Seriously, most of the time I was just tired and bored!" Anderson told him, turning on his computer and logging in.

"Tired and bored," Keith said in a flat voice. He threw his hands in the air and left the room. If Anderson didn't want to talk, there was no forcing him. Keith had known that for fucking _years_.

*

_"How is he doing?" Keith asked lowly as Anderson entered the apartment late one night._

_"He just lost his partner of eleven years, how do you think he's doing?" Anderson said, voice tight with bitterness and anger._

_"Anderson," Keith tried, but Anderson cut him off neatly with one gesture of his hand._

_"I really don't want to talk about it, Keith," he said, going into their bedroom, stripping to his underwear and pulling on pajamas._

_"Is this how it's going to be? I ask you how things are and you just shut me down with an excuse?"_

_"That's pretty much it," Anderson said, already getting into bed._

_Keith could say nothing, only look down at the man he loved in sadness and confusion._

*

The look on his face now was eerily similar, blank, but eyes filled with warning. Keith shook his head as he cleared their dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher.

He loved that man, he had to remind himself, flaws and damage and baggage all. But sometimes he wanted to wring his skinny neck. The problem was that he and Anderson had very different ideas about how one approached these sorts of situations. Keith was not in his head, most of the time. When something was bothering him his best way to deal with it was to talk about it, was to release all the associated emotion and examine it out in the open. Anderson was almost always in his head. The first time Keith had had an actual conversation with him, one about religion and love and the world, he had learned that there was far more in that brain than grief, dry humor, and bad reality TV. When things happened, he internalized, he went deep inside himself and what his thoughts might have been no one could claim to know, not even Keith.

Not to say that Keith hadn't learned a few things in his time. Anderson had code phrases. His partner had spent a lot of time creating sound bites that revealed only what he wanted you to know, but sometimes the other stuff slipped through, and it was then that Keith paid attention.

He knew something about this whole situation bothered Anderson. He didn't know whether it was the amputation or the chase or the email -- maybe it was all of it. Keith didn't have the roadmap to figure out which it was.

*****

Later that night, Keith lay curled around Anderson, feeling as thought parts of him were heavy and others light. The first few nights Keith had been afraid to get close like usual, afraid to kick something he shouldn't, afraid to jar Anderson's leg and the fragile peace they had settled on so they didn't have to talk about things. Anderson had turned over and come closer.

"I need you to be here with me," he had whispered. "I need to have you close."

Keith had pulled his partner to himself and hadn't let go the whole night long.

Anderson kept the apartment almost uncomfortably cold for February. But, he explained once, he liked it to be cold enough that laying close to Keith was necessary to stay warm. Keith couldn't find it in him to complain about it after that.

Tonight, it was almost too warm. Anderson gave off heat like he was still in the middle of the jungle, like he'd simply stored up all the heat and sun that had beaten down on him in Colombia. It made Keith think of Superman, who only had his powers when he had the sun to "charge" him up. Keith had foregone everything but boxers, feeling creases of skin grow slick with sweat.

"A lot of the time all I could think about was running," came a quiet voice as Keith tried to figure out how to cool down. But Anderson's voice made him stop cold. He didn't say anything, just waited. "When the adrenaline floods into you, you get this strange taste in the back of your mouth. I've gotten used to it over the years, but this was stronger, this was... I probably could have run for days and not felt the exhaustion.

"I kept thinking of you. At the oddest times I'd remember things we'd done, words we'd said. It would be entirely too sappy to say that I needed to survive for you. Because I needed to survive for me. It wasn't about the email or survivor instincts, unless those instincts were entirely focused on needing to be here again. When I got shot...

"You asked me, the night before I left, do you remember?"

"I asked you if you had a death wish," Keith spoke for the first time, voice roughened with nebulous emotion.

"I couldn't answer you truthfully that night, Keith," Anderson said even more quietly, and Keith felt something leap into his throat. He swallowed reflexively, fighting it down. "I don't go to these places looking to get killed, but I've never--it's never been so close. Except that it has. No, I mean," he tripped over his words. He turned over and looked Keith in the eye. When Anderson was at home, when he was comfortable, his eyes got large. It made him look so fucking young. "I don't have a death wish, but I never take it seriously enough. I'm so fucking blasé about getting shot at or seeing rockets go off. But down there," he shook his head and hid his face in Keith's chest. The air between them grew heated from his breath.

Keith let his hand cup the back of Anderson's head, cradled him there, let him formulate the words, the emotions. Keith's thoughts ran a mile a minute, threatened to burst forth like usual, but that wasn't for this place. That was for Keith and that was for daylight. Right now was for Anderson. Plain and simple.

"I got shot and I was bleeding and about to pass out from pain, and all I could think was to run. I didn't slow down, I didn't think about how badly I was damaging my leg, I didn't think about the blood trail I was leaving. I just ran. I had to, I had no impulse to just lay down and take it. It occurred to me, laying in the hospital, wishing so hard that you didn't have to know about this, how messed up that was. Because I fought so hard, I did so much damage to myself because I needed to be here."

Anderson didn't say anything more that night. They drifted off to sleep as some of the tension began to evaporate, boiling off in the wake of intense emotions and more unsaid words.

*****

"We're here tonight with Anderson Cooper," Brian Williams said as they came back from commercial. "He is here to tell us his story. A story which will put in perspective the information which has taken the world by storm. Anderson, we were all, frankly, stunned to learn the extent of your injuries. However, it brought a realism to this whole disaster. But you're here to give us the whole story. What were you doing in Colombia in the first place?"

"I was there to report on the drug situation that has tied the United States so inextricably..."

_"... traveled two days before we figured out the email..."_

_"I hoped it would draw them away from Charlie, give him time to inform..."_

_"Mudslides, not as fun as they seem when you're seven..."_

_"... you were shot at this point?"_

_"A young woman, whose name I won't give, helped me, wrapped the wound and gave me some kind of pepper which I've since learned helped stop the bleeding. I'm pretty sure she was making jokes about me in Spanish..."_

_"... gi_gantic_ cat, could've crushed my head with its jaws..."_

_"I thought was that the end but then these floodlights went on, like a real-live movie..."_

_"...they make less than lettuce pickers in our country and yet cocaine is far more lucrative for the refiners than salad is for Dole..."_

_"...I think I was there a day or two, things were getting very hazy by that point and when I lost feeling in my foot we decided to move."_

_"... never thought I'd be so glad to see a rocket launcher in my life..."_

_"I knew I had to get that information away from me. I had been steaming about it all through that... adventure and I wasn't going to stop just because of a gunshot wound..."_

_"... the injuries were bad enough to require amputation?"_

_"... has some of the best doctors in the world from Cuba... three surgeries... fitted for a prosthetic..."_

"You are, arguably, going to be a more famous journalist than Woodward, Bernstein, and Cronkite put together," Brian said, looking a little shell-shocked. "You've uncovered a massive conspiracy that not only--"

"Okay, well, that's where you're wrong. I didn't uncover this. I was simply a-a vessel, if you will. I was--he doesn't want recognition, he doesn't want all that mess, but the man who sent me that information, he uncovered it. He was the one who let us know this information."

Brian acknowledged the point with nod. "Very true, but you are the public face of this. You went through hell and back to get the information to the world, so that should count for something, right?"

"Maybe," Anderson said, noncommittally.

Brian stared at him for a beat before looking down at a note card, hesitating before opening his mouth. "Will you be going back to work?"

Anderson's brow furrowed. "Yes, fairly soon actually."

"Your entire program, your journalistic chops, are based on this globe-trotting reporting," Brian started, hesitating again before finishing the question, "what will you do if you can't do that anymore?"

The question stopped Anderson in his tracks, his thoughts coming to a stuttering halt, his heart skipping a beat. He stared at Brian, dumbfounded. He thought of another lifetime, a conversation with Charlie in the middle of a rundown village in Colombia. He saw Brian's eyes flick to a producer out of sight and he started to open his mouth but Anderson beat him to the punch.

"Listen, it's never been about, it's not about the adventure or the globe-trotting or what everyone seems to think," Anderson started, voice strong. But as he began speaking again the calm facade of story-telling he'd kept in his voice melted a little. "It's about the story, it's about people who are out there living with much worse than a missing limb and for once would just like someone to _listen_ to them. So, I'll do what I've always done. I'll tell the story that needs telling.

"It's the least they deserve."

*****

There are things Anderson owed people. He owed his mother a profuse apology. He owed Keith the rest of his life, which unless something _else_ untoward happened, Anderson would happily hand over. He owed Charlie fifty bucks for finally having his luck run out. He owed Jon Klein a year of not going fucking _anywhere_ without a security escort that would make the President, the Pope, and fucking Britney Spears pant with envy. And he owed Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert many many amputee jokes for scaring the life out of both of them.

His interview with Brian Williams was repeated ad nauseum on every station. Not even FOX news made a crack about him when they saw the tied up pant leg. Also, apparently, the trauma that Anderson didn't hide quite as well as he thought he had behind the info-dump and the dry wit which he covered everything up with. They tried, in the first few days, to call Anderson a liar, to say the information wasn't legit, which was actually pretty fair given that everyone else had taken the information as God's own truth. But too many details made liars of them and they stopped. They still tried, every so often, to find something to smear, something that made Anderson or the media or Democrats the enemy, the hypocrite, but frankly, they were as pissed off at the Bush Administration as everyone else was.

Anderson put together the story he'd been working on in Colombia and aired it to an audience that had doubled in size. He doubted they would stick around. The missing limb would be sexy for all of about a week before they realized that the drug war in Colombia and the famine in Niger are not quite as sexy. He added in small parts. He talked about Leandro in vague terms, remembering, at odd times, gun callused hands and a beautiful smile. He talked about all Colombia had to offer if America would just stop needing to support her drug habit. The story wouldn't change anything, he was sure, but it was a solid piece full of good reporting and Anderson was proud of it.

He went on _The Daily Show_ so Jon could yell at him in person. Jon told awful jokes about his leg that had Anderson laughing so hard it hurt. He showed a terribly doctored video of "Romancing the Stone" with Anderson's head on Michael Douglas' body, and Anderson finally understood Charlie's joke. In the green room, after the show, Jon hugged him so hard that his ribs creaked. To Anderson, Jon was one of the bravest people on the planet and to have him calling Anderson a "brave son of a bitch," albeit one he wanted to kill for taking such risks, made Anderson feel like he could go back to Colombia and take on that cat, the army, and the fucking drug war.

And then he received a call that told him him he would be testifying before Congress and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court in the impeachment trial of George W. Bush and Richard Cheney.

*****

"You know they want me as well," Keith told him as they sat in bed talking about the subpoena.

"Because you were detained by the FBI," Anderson said.

"Fucking chased down and hauled off, you mean, but yes 'detained' will suit for court," he said, flipping idly through the channels on the TV.

"How did you know it was Bobby?" Anderson asked, nose buried in the space behind Keith's ear, smelling salt and musk.

"He said he knew you. I made a guess."

"I knew lots of people at the CIA," Anderson argued.

"Yeah, but this guy." Keith sighed and shifted. "He had a look I recognize. One I see in the mirror everyday."

Anderson levered himself up and stared confusedly at his partner. "What look?"

"The one that says, 'I was lucky enough to be loved by Anderson Cooper.'" Keith didn't look at him as he said it. There was very little sappiness in their relationship. There was love and comfort, and more frequently arguments and sarcasm, but these sorts of sentiments were best left for post-orgasmic bliss and morphine highs. "So, yeah, the way he looked when he said your name, I don't know how you could have ever thought he didn't love you."

And that fact right there, the idea that someone can love him like that, that much, that was what always hit Anderson right in the middle of the eyes. The first time Keith had told him he loved him Anderson hadn't spoken for a good ten minutes, and then they had the most amazing sex of their relationship so far. He had a mother and two half-brothers, nieces and nephews, and he had a brother and father who loved him more than almost anything in the world. And yet Anderson was still surprised when someone was willing to expend that much affection on him. Like it was a hardship for those people.

It boggled the mind.

"Why does it feel like," Anderson stopped and laid back down, letting Keith's arm curl around him again. Keith resumed the flicking of the remote. "Why does it feel like the end of the movie should have happened like two hours before?"

"What?" Keith asked, utterly confused.

"I mean, why do things keep happening?"

Keith caught on. "Because this is real life and not a movie. The fall out is more than we've even imagined."

*****

The impeachment was a circus, but so much more important than any other impeachment trial that had ever been held. Who the hell cared about the President getting a blowjob anymore when another President had knowingly allowed 3,000 people and then some--because let's not forget Afghanistan and Iraq and countless Arab citizens--to die, all for the misguided, criminal attempt to implement thousands of years of bad policy decisions? Cheney would get his own trial.

"Hear, ye! Hear, ye! Hear, ye!" the Senate's sergeant at arms called out. "All persons are commanded to keep silent, on pain of imprisonment, while the House of Representatives is exhibiting to the Senate the articles of impeachment against George Walker Bush, president of the United States."

Days later, Anderson was the first person called before the court. The room went eerily silent; only the shutters of cameras and the questions and answers of the parties involved were heard. The reality of Anderson, with his missing leg, was almost more convincing than the verbal testimony he gave.

The administration had finally broken radio silence after the trial began. Tony Snow had immediately claimed innocence for his boss, but the evidence was overwhelmingly out of Bush's favor. A few days before the trial had begun, a staff member from the Joint Chiefs had come forward to bear witness that the president had asked the president of Colombia to eliminate the threat Anderson Cooper posed with this information 'by any means necessary'. Because he was the military's point man at the NSA on the wiretapping project, Colonel Matt Wilkerson had been the only one in the room when the president had made the call.

It was as good as a smoking gun as far as the media and much of the American public was concerned.

Keith's testimony came next, and suddenly questions were being raised that he and Anderson had avoided for two years.

"Why did Mr. Cooper send _you_ the email, Mr. Olbermann?" asked Senator Biden.

Keith's mouth worked, but he had no ready answer. In the shit storm that had followed the release of the documents, it apparently hadn't occurred to anyone to care _why_ Anderson had chosen Keith. Except for one oblivious Senator who frankly probably only wanted to satiate his curiosity. Rachel had made certain that the part of the email that had been Anderson's had been mysteriously "lost". Keith cleared his throat and silently apologized to Anderson.

"Mr. Cooper and I are involved in a romantic relationship," he said, listening as whispers broke out all over the room. "His choice was a rational one. Not only was he able to assure me of his safety, but he was able to get the information to someone who knew what to do with it."

"Did it not occur to you that there is some bias involved, that this piece of information might have made some difference in how it was viewed?" asked another Senator.

"No, as a matter of fact, it didn't. Mr. Cooper had little reason, if any, to lie to me, and as a journalist whose email address he had ready access to, it made the most sense."

The questions ended there, but the firestorm had already begun outside Capitol Hill in gossip rags, on talk shows, and blogs.

*****

Keith didn't even let Anderson speak when he answered his call. "I'm sorry, they threw me off. It didn't even occur to me to have a good answer for that. Jeez, Andy--"

"Keith, it's okay!" Anderson said, cutting him off. "Seriously, I'm rather glad you _didn't_ perjure yourself just to protect our privacy."

"Really?" Keith asked.

"Yes, really. When are you coming home?" His voice had gone soft and hopeful.

"Soon," Keith assured him. "I think they want one more round of questions before they dismiss me."

"I feel like this is what our lives are now," Anderson said.

Keith didn't have a response to that. He felt the same way.

*****

They didn't watch the rest of the trial beyond what was necessary to report the news. They were too close to it and Anderson was starting to vibrate under his skin. It was a condition Keith had seen in him before, and it was almost always followed by a breakdown--into anger, tears, hysterical laughing--of huge magnitudes for someone so composed.

"We should take nights off together more often," Anderson told Keith as they lay together on the couch one night. They had ignored sports, news, and trashy TV and settled on an old romance movie. They had made dinner together and had talked about topics that had nothing to do with politics, work, or anything of that sort. They were taking a break from life.

"Mmm," Keith agreed. He squeezed Anderson around his middle and was gratified when Anderson melted even more than usual. Anderson managed to roll himself to his side, raising his face for a kiss which Keith eagerly gave him. They hadn't had sex since Anderson's return, too caught up in and exhausted by other affairs to be in the right head space for even the most basic pleasures.

Anderson turned all the way over and managed to pull himself up slightly so that he could wrap his arms around Keith's neck. Keith hands wandered down Anderson's back, squeezing his ass, scratching his back with blunt nails making Anderson shiver. He felt Anderson grow hard against his belly. They kissed leisurely, enjoying the act, anticipating what would come afterward.

Keith groped for the remote and quickly switched off the TV, moving to sit up. Anderson protested with a groan.

"Come on, we're too old to fuck on the couch," Keith said.

"Maybe _you_ are," Anderson said with a naughty grin. That earned him a slap on the ass and they were both laughing with love and relief. Keith had been afraid that their self-imposed day off wouldn't have been enough for them to get to this point.

He got one arm under Anderson's back and slung his legs onto his lap with the other, lifting him into his arms as he stood.

"Woah!" Anderson said, arms going back around Keith's neck. Keith hoisted him a little trying to take the weight comfortably. Anderson was laughing a little, looking at him like he was crazy but not protesting as they made their way towards the bedroom. Which was really too far away for Keith's tastes right now.

"Good Christ, you're heavy," he grunted.

"You didn't have to carry me!" Anderson protested, kissing his neck.

"Because it's so sexy to wheel your lover to the bedroom when you want to have sex?" Keith immediately wanted to take back the words, unbelievably insensitive as they were, but Anderson was laughing, so hard in fact that Keith had to get to the bed quick if he didn't want to drop him.

"You know you're the first person who's made a cripple joke to me?" Anderson asked, pulling Keith down on top of him as they settled on the bed.

"Thought Stewart and Colbert were promising to keep you steeped in them?"

"They didn't follow through. Well, Jon did on his show, but you didn't see his eyes, he hated every moment of it."

"Despite the fact that it had you laughing so hard there was a wet spot on your shorts when you got home?" Keith asked.

"What can I say, Jon is such a sensitive soul compared to you and I," Anderson said. "Now, can we get on with it?"

"Get on with it, he says, like we've--" Anderson's lips cut off Keith's grumpy grumblings, coaxing Keith's tongue into his mouth. Keith took control of the kiss, coming closer, moving slowly, stoking their arousal. He maneuvered his hand under Anderson's back, pressing the small of it to bring Anderson's groin more fully to him, trapping it between their stomachs, swallowing the moan that followed. Anderson loved frottage with Keith, had told him so a number of times, said it was the hair on his belly and groin. Anderson had hair, but there simply wasn't that much and a lot of it was downy rather than wiry like Keith's.

Keith ignored his own arousal and concentrated on driving Anderson crazy. With his other hand he pinched and flicked at hardened nipples, gratified when Anderson bucked in his arms, nearly taking an eye out as his head jerked. Anderson's own hands were clenched firmly on Keith's back and those tiny points of pain went straight to Keith's cock. Finally, he moved up a little, fitting their groins together.

"Yes!" Anderson exclaimed. Keith grunted and began to thrust. Their arousal was spiralling together, their breath mingling in time. One of Anderson's hands came up to clutch and pull Keith's hair and he let out a sharp moan. He loved having his hair pulled. Their thrusts sped up as they chased their orgasm.

"Ow, _oh_, fuck, fuck," Anderson suddenly said.

"What? What is it?" Keith immediately asked, pulling back to get a look at his lover.

"Oh, shit," he gasped. "Off, _off_," he pushed at Keith until he rolled to the side and then went to clutch at--

His left calf. Which was no longer there.

They were still for all of ten seconds as Anderson gasped his way through pain that wasn't there. Then the other man forced himself to sitting, scooted himself to the edge of the bed and stopped.

It was obvious Anderson wanted to retreat, wanted to get far away from Keith and the reality of his situation, but his wheelchair had been left in the living room. He stopped at the edge of the bed, hands clenching at the mattress, not looking at his leg, not looking at Keith. Keith doubted, wherever he was looking, that he was seeing anything.

Anderson didn't say anything, which was entirely in character. But Keith didn't say anything either, which was entirely _out_ of character. Around them the apartment hummed: appliances, the click and rush of hot air from the air system, the occasional jingle of Molly's tags, and harsh breathing. Breathing that was getting harsher, and Anderson's hand abruptly left the bed to cover his face. Keith moved then, sliding across the bed and placing his legs on either side of Anderson's, wrapping himself around his partner.

The silence remained and when Keith felt a warm drop on his bare arm he didn't say anything. He only laid lips on the side of Anderson's head, pulled him in closer. Soon, Anderson quieted. When he cried it was something that was not spoken of again, and before Keith it was something he did alone, into the pillow, a private release. In 2005 he had cried on camera and he had spent two years trying to regain equilibrium, trying to convince people that no, _this_ was the real Anderson Cooper, not the destroyed, distraught look-alike from Mississippi and Louisiana.

Once he was quiet, Keith urged him down onto his side. He flicked off the bedside lamp, giving Anderson the shelter of darkness, letting him lose himself in its anonymity. Unlike everything else in Anderson's life this was not something he could remove himself from. If New York is the problem, find the first flight to anywhere else. If New Orleans is the problem, go back to New York. If Keith is being an asshole, go to Jon or Stephen. But he couldn't remove himself from this. The missing space, the phantom pains, they were a constant reminder.

"I know it isn't the same," Keith started, voice low and gentle. "But you're getting the prosthetic soon. You'll be mobile again."

Anderson nodded fiercely as though he were internalizing those words, making them be true.

"And I know you won't talk to anyone," Keith said, but Anderson turned in his arms. His eyes were swollen and the area underneath red and irritated. But his mouth was set in a determined line and the flood of fear that had been there minutes ago was replaced with something steely.

"I'll talk to you," Anderson said simply.

*****

They met at the Sin Bin. It was a little hole of a bar with cheap drinks that Anderson had seen while on a walk one day. His new prosthetic was top-of-the-line, latest technology kind of stuff. It was a little strange, walking on something that he couldn't really feel. It had messed up his balance severely in those first few months, but physical therapy gradually restored Anderson's gait to near normality.

He entered the dark bar adjusting his baseball cap, silently thankful that Keith was in Los Angeles that night. He didn't want to explain to his partner why he thought this meeting was important. Because it was so very important to Anderson.

"You look exactly the same," said a rough voice he'd know anywhere. Anderson felt his heart leap as he took in his old lover, much older now, but still the same.

"You don't look so different yourself, Bobby," Anderson commented quietly. The other man snorted.

"Except for the excess tonnage and about a thousand more wrinkles?"

"Even so," Anderson said, unable to unglue his eyes from him. They took a seat in a booth near the back, hiding from prying eyes, not that there were many here on a Tuesday.

"Don't suppose you can forgive me for sending you that email?" Bobby asked.

"I didn't ever blame you," Anderson told him, thinking it was maybe a lie; he hadn't really thought about it. "But it's really strange having a personal grudge against a former president, even if he is in prison."

George W. Bush and Dick Cheney had both been impeached, thrown out of office and given sentences of life imprisonment. There had been calls for the death penalty since they had committed the highest act of crime in the country--treason--but in the end, the judge didn't like the precedent and had them sentenced to jail terms so long that even if they lived forever they'd still be serving far into the future.

"I just didn't know who else to go to," Bobby said after they placed drink orders with the waitress.

"I'm glad you felt that-" Anderson paused, unsure what he was going to say. "I'm glad you thought of me."

"Andy, I swear to God or who the fuck ever that you're practically the only person I've thought about for the past twenty years," the man said, so bluntly that the air went out of Anderson's lungs all of a sudden.

*

_"Jesus, kid," Bobby wheezed as Anderson took him in his mouth. He loved doing this to Bobby. Hell, maybe he just liked giving head in general, but Bobby had been his first, and, Anderson hoped, his last._

_Hands tugged at his hair, mussing it, making it fall into his eyes and he obediently rose, letting Bobby pull him close. Their mouths met with passion and Anderson stumbled back to the bed, pulling at the rest of his lover's suit. Bobby had already stripped him of his boxers and t-shirt and quickly helped Anderson divest him of the rest of his day clothes._

_"On your knees, kid," Bobby ordered, sliding on a condom. Anderson complied; he had already prepared himself, anticipating Bobby's late return. He screamed in pleasure as Bobby pushed in, not letting Anderson adjust. They moved together quickly, grunts from Bobby and small cries and whimpers from Anderson dropping from their lips._

_Bobby came, holding himself still even as Anderson writhed underneath him. He pulled out and urged Anderson onto his back, pulling at his erection, making Anderson's hips leave the mattress again and again before coming hard onto his stomach and Bobby's hand._

_"You're gonna kill me someday, Andy."_

*

"Why did you break it off?" Anderson asked, leaving the subject that had brought them together again, needing answers of a very different kind.

"Aw, jeez, kid," Bobby groaned, taking a hefty sip of his bourbon. "Fuck, call it fear, call it--you needed somethin' else. Someone who wasn't nearly twice your age."

"Shouldn't I have had some say in this?" Anderson demanded.

"You did, Anderson," Bobby said. "You never came back, you didn't fight."

"My _brother_ had just _died_," Anderson exclaimed before lowering his voice again. "I needed someone I could count on, to lean on while I was trying to support my mom. You told me it wasn't meant to be."

"And what do you say now, huh?" Bobby asked, cheeks going red, eyes going dark. "You got a guy, a damn good one by my estimation. You really wish things had gone differently, that you'd attached yourself to me? Then what would have happened? Would you have gone to Burma or Vietnam or Rwanda or any of those fuckin' places? Would you be sittin' at the top of your game, at the top of your profession if you stayed by some old CIA creep's side, waiting for him to come home and fuck you, waiting for him to have normal hours and a normal life? Would you give up Olbermann for the possibility of an old man who couldn't get it up without a pill? An old guy who never listened to you? Treated you like some kind of weekend special?"

Anderson was speechless as he listened to Bobby tear apart his life, show him the other one. It made something in his stomach clench, burn, _hurt_. Had it been like that? Anderson's memories from that time were so blurry, so caught up in the pain. He had been utterly captivated by Bobby all those years ago. Had he been so blinded that he hadn't noticed the way he was treated? His heart grieved.

"You got a guy, you got a job, you got a life, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say," Bobby said, momentary fury abated. "You didn't need me."

Anderson only had one question, though he thought he knew the answer alreadly. "Did you need _me_, Bobby?"

Bobby stared at him, dark eyes world-weary and resigned. It made Anderson's heart ache. "Every damn day, kid."

They finished their drinks in silence and left the bar, stepping out into chilled air.

"I never wanted to do it, Anderson," Bobby said, not looking at him, though Anderson, again, couldn't tear his eyes away. "Best damned thing that ever happened to me."

Anderson couldn't stop himself from grabbing Bobby by the neck and kissing him hard on the lips. He felt Bobby return the kiss fiercely, grasping at Anderson's back, but then they ended it. A last kiss.

Echoing the goodbye of twenty years before, Bobby said in a gruff tone, "Be seein' ya, kid."

*****

Anderson stared at the strange materials that now made up his lower left leg. The physical reminder of all that had occurred in the past year and a half. So much had changed, personally and professionally. Former Speaker Pelosi was now the first female President of the United States, soon to be replaced by either the first African-American or first septuagenarian President. Anderson had kept a great proportion of those viewers that he'd thought would be a fair-weather audience. Anderson had, with his own professional capital, taken greater control of his show's content. That meant analysis still occurred but opinion was kept to a minimum. That meant that he no longer covered ridiculous stories like Paris Hilton getting out of jail or the like. It meant a greater emphasis on the international news. Anderson himself didn't get to travel as much, at least not to the places he wished. His prosthetic leg made him _almost_ normal.

Finally, there was him and Keith. Officially out of the closet, they had endured their share of the tabloid news. Oprah, Dr. Phil, and several others had called to see if they wanted to come on and talk about their relationship. They had turned them all down. FOX News made a big deal about bias, though every word they said practically _steamed_ with homophobia (and, of course, Ann Coulter used the opportunity to say 'fag' a couple thousand times). Jon and Stephen had started calling them the Golden Couple of News, which was probably the most embarrassing part of it all.

*

_"Seriously, there are pictures of you _everywhere_, now. When you guys come out you come out with a bang, don't you?" Jon asked over drinks._

_"Well, it's not like he bent me over the studio desk and fucked me," Anderson replied, grinning at the double entendre._

_"Man, I can't believe you left that one just lying out there," Stephen said, flicking Jon on the arm._

_"Anyway, we just decided to be more demonstrative, go out more, now that we don't have to hide it," Keith said._

_"Why did you hide it?" Jon asked, looking straight at Anderson._

_"Hey," Keith said, grabbing his attention. "It was as much my decision as his and it was mostly out of our hands with our bosses breathing down our necks." Jon had the good grace to look ashamed._

_"What about the _children_?" Stephen asked dramatically. They all sent him odd looks, so he sobered. "Sorry, I just thought you two wanted to have families?"_

_"We still do," Anderson insisted. "I know we're getting a little bit... on in years." That got him a sharp slap to the arm, causing him to giggle._

_"What Anderson _means_ to say is that we still want a family and we'll be starting on that soon."_

_"Jesus, they're like the Brangelina of news," Jon commented, earning two more glares for his trouble._

*

The reminder of their mortality, visible any time Anderson was naked, urged both speed and caution--if they wanted a family they needed to do so soon, but they had remained aware of the fact that they were getting older and that at any time either of them could die. Granted, not likely in an international conspiracy, at least not now.

As soon as Anderson had gotten the prosthetic and had gotten used to it they took another day off together. Stubborn as Anderson was, he just couldn't face the prospect of sex without _some_ sort of leg, even if it wasn't flesh and bone. And Keith had patiently waited; they had both masturbated, mostly in private, and Anderson had missed him fiercely.

They hadn't even gotten out of bed as morning broke on their day off. They had made love passionately, swiftly reaching orgasm and becoming aroused again in a short period -- for them, anyway. They had only left their bed to eat and use the restroom--the shower had resulted in a blowjob that had left Keith staggering into the shower door and out into the bathroom--and even when they weren't having sex, they held each other close.

Phantom pain had plagued Anderson only a few times. Most of those times Keith hadn't been around, and Anderson hadn't told him about them. From what he could tell they weren't precipitated by anything. Maybe it was just as simple as his body missing an integral part of itself.

Anderson's memories and musings were interrupted by Molly's excited bark and the opening of the front door. He smiled and levered himself off the couch, coming into the hall to greet his lover, who was scratching Molly's face and ears and getting a few kisses on his face.

"I'd say you'd have to wash up after letting the dog lick your face, but it's not like I've never kissed you after I've kissed Molly," Anderson said, and his words prompted a grimace from his lover.

"Well, that's a level of gross I never thought we'd reach, what with your germophobic ways," Keith said, rising, accepting a hello kiss. Keith tasted like peanuts and coffee, making Anderson frown--coffee was gross--and he immediately went into the kitchen.

"You need real food," he announced, pulling out some take-out he'd gotten on his way home from his meeting with Bobby.

"Because Thai take-out is so much more healthy," Keith argued. "You go to the--"

"Yes, Keith, I went to the gluten-free place. Trust me, I didn't want you to be barfing all night." He quickly heated up the few items that Keith could eat, cracking open a beer for him as well.

"You treat me so good," Keith said, affecting a Southern drawl and kissing him on the temple. Anderson allowed it with a smile.

"I've got an investment in your food intake tonight," Anderson told him.

"Oh, really?" Keith asked, smile going dirty.

"And what if what I had in mind was a game of Trivial Pursuit? Would your grin be so filthy if that was the case?" Anderson asked, leaning away as Keith tried to kiss him again.

Keith shrugged. "Probably. Only because games we play tend to end in orgasm anyway." He pulled Anderson to him and the resulting kiss made something inside Anderson snap. His hands clutched at Keith's hair and shoulders. Whenever Keith kissed him Anderson's heart began to pound. He imagined this feeling -- overwhelming, packed with too many emotions -- was something like a heart attack. The blasphemous thought that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad way to go incited him to kiss back harder, hoping to dispel it. Keith's hands, big and clumsy in most everything but _this_ massaged his ass and back, fingers trailing at the inseam of Anderson's jeans. Anderson bucked into Keith, kiss becoming messy and wet.

"You really want that food?" Anderson panted when Keith finally pulled away.

"What do you think?"

"Wonderful." He pulled Keith backward, turning to make it to the bedroom (walking backwards was not something he was quite as good at yet). The bedroom was lit by the bright blue of the stereo, digital tuner, and clock (Keith refused to have red or green lights; Anderson couldn't give a shit). They didn't bother with the lights, collapsing carefully onto the bed. They had to work around the prosthesis, which could poke uncomfortably, but otherwise they took no care in the swift removal of their clothing. Anderson found it hard to tear himself from Keith. In the practically anonymous encounters he'd had since Bobby left him there had been very little of this encompassing feeling. Anderson had paid attention to known erogenous zones and had ended the encounters quickly. Keith negated that, held Anderson to his body, found new places that drove Anderson wild with arousal: the soft skin between the tendon and heel of his foot, his love-handles, even something as simple and normal as the skin under his jaw.

Anderson liked to keep his eyes open during sex, sometimes even during kissing, because Keith's eyes were always closed. He was always so intent on chasing the pleasure, making Anderson feel good, letting other senses take over and guide him. But Anderson loved the play of muscle and skin in the bright blue that bathed them--it made his stomach well with wonder and fondness, made him appreciate all over again the absolute male-ness of Keith. His hands roamed over Keith's back, creating shadows, gripping to create dark furrows. Keith groaned and lowered himself to lay completely on top of Anderson. This is what he loved. The first few times Keith had been worried about his weight, but Anderson liked it.

He got one leg around Keith's waist and thrust up into his warmth. Keith bit the sensitive skin around his chest and then bit and pulled at his nipples. Anderson arched into it, hips surging with each bolt of desire, like electricity chasing a wire. He urged Keith over onto his back and straddled him, shifting on top of his insistent erection, making Keith's own hips swell like waves, the strength almost displacing Anderson from his perch. He leaned over and licked and sucked at the stubble on Keith's jaw, letting it rub at his lips, making them red and puffy. He let his fingernails catch in Keith's chest hair and licked at his nipples, his own arousal ratcheting up with Keith's--maybe there was some truth to his claim that he had an oral fixation. Keith's hands were practically attached to his ass, encouraging Anderson's hips to move with his own and with a few adjustments their erections came together, bumping demandingly.

Anderson kissed him, encouraging Keith's tongue to massage his, and fell to the side, propping his right leg on Keith's hip. They pulled each other close and began thrusting measuredly against one another. Anderson's hands made their way into Keith's hair, giving little tugs that stuttered their rhythm. Their noses met, rubbing together as their kiss broke on gasps and whimpers. Anderson, in his usual way, made an ungodly amount of noise. His memory flashed to Bobby, how he it had been the same way with him and then never again until he'd met Keith.

When Anderson made love with Keith he gave up the last bits of himself, every part of him, forcing them into Keith through osmosis. In his entire life this was the only man who he trusted to know what to do with them, trusted to protect, trusted to give those parts back. Bobby had gotten a few pieces. His heart, his commitment, his trust to help him heal. But he had been so much younger then, with so much less to give, hadn't yet been burned so hadn't pulled back. Now, moving so fervently with Keith, kissing him, feeling every part of himself hum with pleasure, he _couldn't_ pull back. And Keith took everything, took it, gave him his own, accepted every part of Anderson.

"Keith," he said harshly, softly, lovingly as the motion of his hips faltered into an intense orgasm, triggering Keith's own. They shared in their pleasure, holding onto one another as though the furious buzz under their skins would meet and multiply.

But it faded, like the sweat that turned cold and evaporated from their skin. They didn't move much, only petted at skin, kissed, came down from their high.

"Well, fuck, now I'm hungry," Keith said and Anderson laughed. They maneuvered to their feet, cleaning up in the bathroom and gathering pajamas before going back out into the kitchen.

Anderson reset the microwave to heat up the Thai and turned to face Keith, hands over his chest. The other man was leaning against the island, flicking listlessly through his accumulated mail.

"I went and saw Bobby, today," Anderson announced, wincing at his abruptness.

Keith looked up slowly from the pack of coupons he was separating out for the things they needed. Although why they needed coupons when they could easily afford anything they needed confused Anderson. He figured it was an old habit of Keith's.

"I'm thinking there's an appropriate response to that, but it's eluding me at the moment," Keith finally said, putting the mail down and assuming the same position as Anderson.

"Yeah, I know," Anderson said, looking down at his white, narrow foot and its strange companion. "I asked to meet with him but until I was walking there I didn't know whether I'd actually go."

"Why did you ask to meet him?"

"I needed," he shook his head. "I don't know why _I_ was there, but he had some things I needed to hear, didn't know I needed to hear."

He felt his heart beating hard. They didn't talk like this, not without the dark, not without the recriminations and stony silences before Anderson finally gave in. But here he was, opening up. Maybe Bobby had given him back more than he'd even sussed out.

"I've been kind of... subconsciously blaming him for my leg."

"I don't see how that's so strange," Keith told him.

"Yeah, but I wasn't blaming him for the right reasons. I wasn't-I think it had to do with our past. I can now lay pretty heavy charges at his feet as to the man I became. This happening now just gave me a chance to dredge it up, gave me a whole new reason to be angry with him. But he gave me some real perspective. Something I've been missing for... too long.

"My leg wasn't his fault and, well, I can blame him for our break-up all I want, but I don't wanna go back to that. I don't wanna turn back the clock. You gave me a reason not to die. He gave me a reason not to regret."

Keith came forward and wrapped his arms around him, waiting for Anderson's arms to uncross and return the hug before rocking them back and forth.

"Can I eat my food now, or should we stretch out the moment?" Keith asked.

Anderson laughed and pushed his partner off of him, pulling the food from the microwave. "So sensitive!"

"You don't love me for my sensitivity," Keith told him.

"That much, my dear Keith, is obvious."

*****

_"Good evening, tonight, we're in Colombia. We've been fortunate enough to make contact with a subcommander in FARC. For obvious reasons he doesn't want to be named and his face is covered, but he has offered to give us insights into the changing political scene here in Colombia, how that situation came about because of regime change in the United States with the brief presidency of Nancy Pelosi and the new administration of Barack Obama, and what that might mean for the people here. The discovery of the conspiracy in the American government has affected countries all over the world. Tonight, we're going to tell you about the place where, for me, it all started."_


End file.
